Empire
by luckyponygirl
Summary: Zoe has come a long ways since her arrival in Alagaesia. She has found friendship and even, most surprising, love in the most unexpected of places. However, the battle for Alagaesia and control of all worlds is only beginning. Caught at the heart of this fight Zoe finds herself walking a fine line between who she used to be, what she has become and what she must be.
1. As Dawn Comes

_The sandy beach was nestled in a sheltered cove surrounded on three sides by high, rocky cliffs. _

_Perched above, imposing and defiant, was an ancient castle whose walls were stained and darkened by years of sea spray and marked by the wicked storms that were blown in to slam against the coastline. It stood alone against the full brunt of nature's violence. _

_The castle had stood there for centuries. No one was quite sure who had originally built it. The origins of the place were shrouded in secrecy and it was commonly known that enchantment lay heavy there. How such old magic, which imbued the structure with a kind of determine permanence, had come to be there no one was sure. At some point, perhaps not long after it was constructed, the place had become home to a family whose origins were as mysterious as the castle's own. They were a family of enchanters, warriors and mariners who had long governed the coastline and the vast ocean that pounded against it. _

_A descendent of this long family line was walking the beach below the bluffs, casually strolling as if he didn't have a care in the world. His dark hair was blown back in wavy curls by a gentle breeze that blew in the from open sea. It was a brilliant day. The sun sparkled on the crystalline blue water. The white foam from the crashing waves gleamed a brilliant white. _

_A beautiful day indeed, thought Taren as he collapsed in an jumbled, most un-lord like heap on the soft sand. It was not often the warrior had the opportunity to escape the stuffy chambers and sugared words of his life above the bluff in the castle. This was, however, his favourite place to come when the chance did present itself. The beach could only be accessed from above by a cleverly hidden path down that only family and close friends knew about. _

_He sat there, still and quiet on the sand. His shirt, open at the collar and made of a thin linen, only partially hid a brutal scar that traced a path across his sternum in a diagonal line to the left. It wasn't the only mark of a life lived mostly on the edge as a warrior through a a brutal civil war followed by a war to end all wars but Taren preferred not to think about it especially here on this untouched, untroubled beach. _

_I might not be the sailer Gen is, thought Taren as he dug his hands into the warm sand, but the ocean will always be a part of me. _

_"Taren!" he heard the excited cry distantly from the top of the cliffs. He cast his gaze upwards and saw the bright blue of his younger cousin's dress and the gleaming gold of her hair. He wondered what had her so excited, she had been so serious and withdrawn of late. Perhaps, for once, some good news had come to lift the grief and regret from her - from them all. In response, knowing his voice would never carry over the crashing of the surf, he raised a hand and waved before dropping his gaze to the white capped waves._

_A sudden chill, whispering wind swept over the sand and made Taren tense. The young man rose, suddenly alert and wary although he could not guess what or why had caused the sudden change in the air. It was not danger he sensed but merely the presence of someone or something. He knew that presence but he could not quite name it or recall where he had last encountered it. It swept around him, whispering secrets in an unintelligible language, at one moment it was warm and the next it was cold. _

_He turned, searching for the source and froze before suddenly leaping forward, a joyful cry already spring to his lips. For, to his utter joy and amazement, there she was. _

_Zoe. _

Taren woke slowly.

He felt as if he had been tumbled around in the ocean, battered by the ever tumbling waves and swept around in circles by underwater currents before being thrown violently up on a rocky beach. His head hurt terribly and his thoughts were horribly muddled. What had happened? His last clear thought had been of sitting in his favourite sitting room in Caer Calldren with his brother and new sister in law. Then had come a sudden, inexplicable pain and lurching motion which had blinded him with the force of its impact, all images disappearing from around him.

A voice, a familiar one, reached him distantly. In its quiet tones Taren's mind conjured up images and memories of childhood games of tag or hide and seek, dances in high ceilinged ballrooms, dinners held at long, elegant dining room tables and midnight swims in hidden, moonlit coves. Those were the lighter memories the voice conjured up within his confused, aching mind. There were darker ones: blood on a gleaming sword, arguments held over the bodies of dead men and pain, always pain.

He didn't want to remember those things. He wanted to remember her as she had been, in the days when they had not known just how easily the world could shatter.

It came again. What was it saying?

With great effort Taren pushed his way through the fog and darkness that seemed to have descended around his consciousness. Slowly he found himself reconnecting with his body and, with a final monumental effort, he opened his eyes.

He felt as if he had been transported back in time.

She was looking down at him. Her face, pale and haggard in the dim light, bore flecks of grime and blood. There were worry lines around her eyes and mouth which was set in a grim, thin line. Her heavy dark hair curled around her thin features and made her look even paler and wearier. But it was her eyes that stopped him and chilled his heart a little. Those eyes - grey-blue and usually so far seeing - were worried and frightened in a way Taren, who had known her for his entire life, had never seen them. She looked utterly spent.

"Taren," she breathed out in relief. "You're awake."

He was not totally focused on her. At that moment part of his mind was thinking how strange it was to see her again especially after the experience on the sandy beach which had, for him at least, occurred not long before. At that time she had seemed to have been there - living and breathing - only to vanish a second later like a mirage. But he was also thinking about how hard the mattress he was lying on was and that the air was not salty but musty. He was in a tent far from the ocean, part of him realized with a deep pang of sadness, and still another, more urgent part of him, was screaming out questions about how he had gotten here.

"Zoe?" he queried.

"Yes," she said with a small, forced smile. "Its me. I've missed you cousin."

"But how…"

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I have no idea. But you are here, with me, in a land called Alagaesia…a land at war."

"Why are you…" he was having a hard time finishing questions but that didn't matter. Zoe knew him well enough to know exactly what he was trying to convey even if he didn't know.

"Its a long story," she said calmly. "There aren't any easy answers but I will do my best to explain."

Taren listened. He listened intently to a story of dragons, mad Kings and suspiciously noble sounding 'Riders.' The more his cousin spoke of this world the quieter Taren grew. Taren had always been good at listening, the youngest and quietest of his family he had had plenty of practice. It was taking him some time to process the idea of dragons and elvish Queens or even, most extraordinary, his cousin's mad-capped, backwards journey to this place.

"You see?" said Zoe at long last and there was a bitter note to her voice. Taren had heard that bitterness before, it had been there for a long time and, not for the last time, he wished he could erase it from her. He knew what had put the bitterness there and he regretted it, would regret it for all of time. "I have been a fool, cousin."

They both looked away. One lost in thoughts of past actions and words that seemed so reckless now in light of recent events and the other completely mystified as to what they were to supposed say. Sympathy seemed a poor remedy and even worse was pity for pity only opened the door to anger and hate, two emotions that were already too close to the surface.

"I haven't seen you this grey for a while," said Taren choosing a light, joking tone in the hope that he could jolly her along a little. "Come - it can't be that bad? You seem to have told me of all the storms and not a single mention of the blue sky days."

She did not turn. "My blue sky days have come few and far between, Taren. But here I am, indulging." With a shake of her head she stood and held out a hand, "I can't tell you how much I've missed you…how much I've missed everyone."

Stretching out his own hand, Taren gripped Zoe's hand tightly.

"Show me," he said. "Show me this world."

* * *

Eragon stared moodily at the crackling fire.

He was distantly aware of Saphira and Arya conversing together in the grey, early dawn light but he lacked the energy or desire to focus on what they were saying. In one hand he loosely fingered the hilt of a hunting knife that he had brought all the way from Carvahall. The blade seemed crude to him now but the hilt was worn smooth and he knew the grip of it well. It had seemed a shame - and downright disrespectful - to abandon the object for a newer, shinier one.

Feinster lay a little ways behind them; its keep and surrounding walls looked jagged and burnt in the grey dawn that slowly spread across the eastern sky. The light made everything seem faded, even Saphira's scales seemed to have lost some of their lustre. The Rider was glad that he was here, a few miles removed from the site of the Varden's latest conquest in a little hollow hidden from the bulk of the main army. Better, he thought, to leave Nasuada with the not so pleasant task of staking claim to the city and its surrounding lands while he considered all that had occurred. His elven guards were about somewhere and Brom had promised to join them when he had seen to Roran and the other young man who had accompanied Eragon's cousin on his mad rescue turned keep storming mission.

Lost in thoughts of Shades that nearly rose from pentagons, hearts of long dead dragons that contained unimaginable power and a cousin who seemed to have no concept of what was reasonable danger and what wasn't, Eragon felt a headache coming on. His brooding thoughts were, however, interrupted a moment later by Saphira.

_Look, _she said. _Here they come. _

Looking up, Eragon realized who 'they' were. Emerging from one of three hastily pitched tents came Zoe and, a moment later, by the dark haired stranger who had, not long before, been unconscious in the shattered Feinster throne room. His name was, if memory served Eragon correctly: 'Taren.' There had been mention of him in a few of Zoe's stories although, at that precise moment, Eragon's mind was too hazy from travel and battle to recall the details.

Taren was taller then Zoe and his skin was darker as if he spent a great deal of time out in the sun. He was still quite pale beneath his tan and he had a slightly dazed look to him. His right hand was clamped firmly over the hilt of his sword which was sheathed in a simple black sheath. But, despite the clear marks of exhaustion, he was striking and Eragon could not say he had seen someone like him before. There was a definite air of foreignness to him. His eyes, darting from left to right, were the same blue-grey as Zoe's. Idly, too tired to really think straight, the Rider wondered if Zoe had told her cousin of Murtagh or if she would. Perhaps, thought the Rider, it was better not to wonder such things.

_Better not to, _said Saphira.

"Zoe," said Arya from her perch on one of Saphira's talons. "Have you come to join us?"

Zoe had never, to Eragon at least, looked quite as worn as she did right then. Her usually bright eyes were dimmed and her quiet laugh was positively lacklustre. "I suppose, Arya," she said quietly. With a wave of her hand she beckoned Taren forward and said, "May I introduce my cousin, Lord Taren of the House of Llyr."

The very mention of 'Llyr' sent a shiver down Eragon's spine. Even here there was a kind of power, of mystery, to the word.

Arya greeted Taren politely and Eragon added his own words of welcome. Taren accepted them graciously, his easy way, however, was most definitely thrown a ringer when Saphira swung her head about to gaze at him.

_Well met nest mate of Zoe, _said Saphira.

Taren didn't jump at the sound of Saphira's mental voice but there was a definite wariness and mistrustful air about him as he took a hesitant step backwards. "Well met o'dragon," he said with a low bow and exaggerated curtesy. "May I say how magnificent you are? And how…"

Zoe managed a fairly amused smile as she interrupted her cousin, "Saphira isn't like the fire drakes of the far east, Taren."

The young man sent his cousin an annoyed look, "I nearly ended up…"

"Yes, yes," said Zoe with a wave of her hand and, for all the world, sounding exactly like a bored sibling who had heard the daring story of their brother or sister one too many times. The sight was, to the Rider, oddly amusing despite all that was occurring around him. "You nearly ended up burnt to a crisp multiple times and skewered on the end of more than one talon. But you were…"

Taren opened his mouth to reply, an indignant look crossing his face briefly but Saphira's curiosity had been roused.

_You never mentioned dragons in any of your stories, Zoe. _

"There never seemed time," said Zoe and a strange, reflective look crossed her face briefly. "Besides, the dragons of my home land are very different from you, Saphira. They have no wisdom nor any sense of the balance of the world and how their willful destruction only, in the end, hurts them."

Arya stood suddenly and looked out towards Feinster, "I think the Varden are pulling back."

They all turned at her words and looked back to the city. Slowly but surely there were men leaving the city in long lines and returning to the camp stationed. In a few days the Varden would gather itself together, organize a garrison of men to remain in Feinster and move on to the next strategic target. The Rider felt a sense of restlessness overtake him.

"Where will we go next?" he wondered out loud. "What will happen now?" He forgot, right then, just who was standing just to his left and the danger of asking such questions.

His thoughts flew far beyond their next battle, however. They considered the movement of the elven army to the east and even further afield: to the very heart of Du Weldenarden. How was his half brother and dragon-ling, Torn, doing? Even more pressing: what about the eldunari? The heart's of dragons were Galbatorix's source of power and, despite his best attempts, the Rider could think of no answer to the challenge posed by it.

"To Belatona," said Zoe quietly. "Nasuada will take the Varden there next. It will be an ugly siege but necessary in the conquest of Dras'Leona."

"And from there?' asked Arya. "What then Zoe?"

The air seemed to crackle suddenly with an unnameable energy and the Rider felt wary, unsure if the power he sensed was friendly or not. It was an unreadable force that, as quickly as it came, died down although the Rider thought he could still sense it. It lingered on the air, not quite there but almost.

"Nothing," said Zoe. "Strangely enough, Arya, it will all turn out well in the end. I can't be sure. But it should, I think." Turning, Zoe looked straight at her cousin with a kind of significant, knowing look. "Isn't that right, Taren?"

A faint smile crossed Taren's face as he returned the look with a knowing one of his own. "The natural condition of our existence is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster."

"But…" began Arya. She looked a little horrified at these last words for the elven princess did not like the sounds of such passiveness in the face of 'insurmountable' and 'disaster.' "How can it…"

Zoe laughed and the shadow seemed to rise from her for a brief minute. For a moment she looked completely confident and unafraid. "I don't know, Arya. It's a mystery. A glorious, unsolvable mystery."

* * *

_**Welcome to the start of a new part in Zoe's story. This chapter is short - I know - but it didn't feel right leaping straight into a battle scene what with a new character and all so think of this as a taste test of what is to come. **_

_**I cannot make promises to update every Tuesday or something like that but I can promise to do my absolute best to be prompt in my posts. The last few months have been hectic for me and, to be honest, I felt a bit lost on how to begin a new story after writing 'Zoe' for so long. **_

**_I had all these great ideas about how to express my gratitude to all the readers who have stopped by and read Zoe but I couldn't put the words down in anyway that made the least bit of sense. But really it all comes down to: thank you so much (!) and I hope you enjoy the continuation of this story. _**


	2. Not Even Duty

"What is this place?" hissed the elf into my ear.

I had met the elf before and even spent a fair amount of time with him on my journey to Feinster from the Varden. And while the elven guard assigned to Eragon and Saphira were always unapproachable, aloof in their manner, Laufin had been easy to speak to; jovial, almost giddy compared to his reserved, somber and, frankly, cold spell caster companions.

Still, I hadn't counted on him being at all excited at the latest assignment he had been recruited for. I had braced myself for this long before I even made the request of Queen Islanzardi, Blodgarm and Laufin.

It was going to be a long night, I thought. We had reached Belatona in the fading light of sunset and settled in a corner of the 'Birchwood Inn.' Our corner was even less well lit by the few wall sconces then the rest of the establishment and, in an effort to blend in, two trenchers lined with mysterious looking stew were ordered. Laufin's strangled noise of disgust and nausea when he saw the food had resulted in me shooting him a withering 'do be quiet' look.

I slouched down a bit in my seat and examined the room.

"Keep your hood up," I instructed him. Better, I thought, to ignore his indigent hisses then reply to them. Magical wards, thin and almost unnoticeable like gossamer curtains around us, helped us blend in simply by making us uninteresting to any who happened to send a look our way but I dared not risk more magic.

Laufin raised his drink and took a tentative sip. I didn't need to see his face to know what expression he had on when the bitter alcohol hit his refined tastebuds but I dearly wished I could.

"What is this place?" demanded the elf once more after a coughing fit that he tried to smother in the hood of his cloak. "_Why_ this place?"

I sighed, abandoning my silence if only for something to do. "The Birchwood Inn? It is my kind of place," I replied, "my eldest brother resides in the great towers and halls among men of power. My younger brother drifts somewhere in the wilds from one mountain range to another, and my sister with the sick and the wounded, with the underdogs. Mine was never so clear for I had no head for state, no heart for constant danger and not the stomach for healing. "

The elf's eyes darted around the scarred tables, the unwashed floors, its equally filthy inhabitants, and raised one eyebrow delicately as he absorbed the hidden meaning in my words.

I read what he was thinking in his shadowed face and looked away. "But here…yes, among the riffraff and the cast-offs, the flotsam and jetsam of the world I can go anywhere and be anything. I am free to be something else, something unknowable. But, if you meant your questions in a more practical vein: I would tell you that this is a smuggler's haven and I have someone I need to meet."

"Why me?" the elf asked again.

"It's a mixed crowd here, on the outskirts of a Empire city…" I let him remember the very specific reasons: spell casting may be needed, superior fighting skills and the ability to quickly contact the Varden once the job was done in case something happened to me. Marco was gone, sent off on another mission, and Taren's skills were better used elsewhere. He was a superb advisor, a lethal swordsman and, besides, two members of Prydain's royal house did not need to be gallivanting around this Empire city - one was bad enough. Besides having Laufin around was proving to be more entertaining then I could have guessed.

"Your family must have been horrified," whispered the elf, returning to what I had already said.

"Oh they were," I said, flicking back a lock of hair. "But because I never belonged in a single place…well I was always adaptable. That, in itself, was a useful trait."

"Who is the person we are waiting for?' inquired Laurfin.

"He is a man of many masks…and he isn't here yet."

"Do you even know what he looks like?"

"No," I replied calmly. "But let me wager that I will be able to spot him the moment he walks through the door."

For a time we sat in silence.

Then: "What about those two?"

I looked towards the door and the men that Laufin had indicated. Two broad shoulder men had ambled in. Their boots thudded on the wooden floor and their voices carried through the room, loud and obnoxious. I wrinkled my nose slightly as I took in their greasy beards.

I raised an eyebrow. "The right one is half-witted," I replied as I took in the man's slightly off kilter expression and the clumsily way his body moved, "and the one of the left is as yellow as...well he is mad for the drink."

Laufin had the good grace to be quiet although I sensed his simmering annoyance.

"Your family," he said suddenly, "they never tried to marry you off? I thought that was the way with mortals."

"There was one," I said recalling him distantly, not taking offence at the elf's words. "There was one once. I never met him face to face but my father sung his praises. Pethred, my brother, thought highly of him. I turned him down. Threatened to find myself a dragon I could chain myself to if the council advisors didn't listen."

"Why?"

I settled back a little in my chair recalling the passionate feelings of my younger self. "I told my father however politically advantageous it might be, however charming he might be, I was never going to marry a man of war."

Laufin sent me a startled look. "What does that mean?"

"He had war in his heart. He was most whole, most himself, in the heat of battle with sword in hand. He valued strength above all else. I knew many men of that sort, fought with men like that and respected them deeply, but I had no wish to be forever wedded to one."

Laufin looked at me for a long moment. I knew what he was about to say, the contradiction that lay between my words and my actions with Murtagh. For he had war in his heart, he was most complete and confident when there was an enemy before him, a sword in hand and a job to do. It was no secret to those who had seen us together in the few brief weeks between the Battle of the Burning Plains and Thorn's hatching that Murtagh and I were more than friends. Even Taren - so fresh and new to this world - had teased me in his quiet away about the disparity in my convictions and my actions regarding the ruby Rider.

"I know," I said quickly, "it makes no sense to you. It seems so nonsensical. But this is something so storybook, fairy tale like, so completely out of character for me - ever since I met him, all the rules were thrown out."

We both stared at out drinks for a time, or at the door. Laufin, I thought with some amusement, had clearly never been in love like this. He had read about it, analyzed it during long Du Weldenvarden days but he did not understand it. I wondered if he ever would.

Then: "That's him. The blue-eyed man."

Laufin cast a quick look to the door and the recent arrival in his dark cloak and workers clothes. The elf looked back at his drink, feigning nonchalance, "Really?" His voice contained a disbelievingly note, "We came all…"

"I need your head in this with me right now," I said under my breath to the elf, interrupting him. "I can't have you not paying attention."

"It is," said Laufin.

"Good," I said.

I had come here to do a little buying and selling. Word had reached me that a golden medallion would be coming onto the night markets. The seller was waiting for the right person, the right price, and the bidding would start promptly at midnight. I needed the medallion for, to enter any city as a true Empire spy - an operative of the Black Hand - one needed passwords and a few other details, complicated in the extreme, but also a small gold medallion that was supposedly enchanted by the King himself. It had eluded us and made things difficult especially as the Varden considered entering busy and heavily guarded Empire cities.

Until now.

I fingered the sapphire ring in my pocket. The ring itself was of elvish make and the jewel itself a pristine sapphire. The jewel had, a few hours before, carried a black rune in the Ancient Language formally declaring me an 'elf friend.' However, a little magic had erased that. I knew that I should not use such a symbolic thing in such a way but I could think of precious else in my possession that was both valuable enough and not terribly important to my own survival. I could replace the ring but I could not copy a medallion and, at least for my plans, the medallion was of far greater importance.

By the end of the night, I thought, Laufin very well may want to shoot me with my own arrows.

"Don't turn around. He is accepting the first round of offers," I said quietly to Laufin.

I swept my eyes over the room and found my competitor. He was of the merchant class, probably of the type that dealt half in legitimate trade and the other half in underground, unregulated market. He was wearing a mantle of rubies of which only one appeared to be real.

"It is time to stir the pot," I said to Laufin. "Raise your goblet."

The buzzing room before us quieted. The blue-eyed man sent our corner an interested look. I raised my goblet in a salute.

A fist slammed down on a wooden table and the merchant man stood up angrily. "We had an agreement," he boomed.

Everyone in the establishment looked towards the offended party. The merchant was standing, fist planted on the table, sweating heavily in his furred cloak. In the dark light of the bar he looked like some angry brown bear that had just been woken from hibernation with a sharp stick.

"Your offer is being challenged," said the blue-eyed man without bothering to look at the incensed merchant.

I cast a quick look around the dim-lit room and counted about half a dozen men looking towards the merchant, his men, his sell-swords that he had brought as protection. I dropped a hand to the elvish dagger hidden in my sash.

"I raise my offer," hissed the merchant.

Laufin glanced at me and I nodded. Once more the elf raised his goblet and, this time, a serving woman came over with a fresh mug.

As she bent to switch our barely touched glasses I murmured, "Lady take this fine mug of ale to the gentleman in that corner." Before she could move away I slid a bright piece of silk emblazoned with the mark of the Varden spy organization into her hand: "Make sure he gets this."

I could hear the woman's steps as she made her way towards the auctioneer. I watched as his face suddenly took on a hunter's smile: dangerous. This man, I knew, was one of the most powerful men in this city although very few probably even knew of his existence. He was a thief, most likely an assassin when he needed spare cash but, above all, a trickster who belonged to no side but his own. Whatever benefited him was top priority and he didn't much care for casualties along the way.

"I have received an offer you cannot hope to match," said the blue-eyed man. "I hope you can understand that."

"I won't hear of it!" snapped the merchant.

"Oh yes you will," said the blue-eyed man softly. "For you and your men are terribly outmatched."

I cast my gaze around the room and realized that the blue-eyed man's words were most definitely true. This had not been a casual gathering. More than half of the men in this pub and even a few of the saucier looking women had their eyes fixed on the blue-eyed man. The rest all seemed to have come for the sheer entertainment, the eagerness in their faces disgusted me slightly.

This wasn't going to be an auction, I thought with a sick feeling. This was going to turn into a blood bath.

"Keep still," I hissed to Laufin. "Whatever you do - keep still."

"Take you men and back out slowly," said the blue-eyed man quietly. "I would hate for this to come to blows."

The merchant was sweating heavily now. He was clearly desperate, for some life endangering reason he needed the medallion and would do anything to get it. Perhaps, without the medallion, he lost some sort of gamble for his life. Was he a dead man now because I happened to carry a flawless sapphire ring?

What he did next was clear proof a desperate, scared to the point of stupidity man.

"Find it!" he cried in a high screech. "Find it and your pay is doubled!"

Action exploded around us. The merchant's men had collided with the blue-eyed man's sell swords. Among them, I noted with a faint twinge of unreasonable annoyance, were Laufin's two men. The one I had called half-witted and the drunkard showing their true colors.

I kept my eyes firmly fixed on blue-eyed man who, like Laufin and I in our corner, remained sitting, watching the spectacle like a particularly lively evening event at the theatre. I fingered the hilt of a throwing dagger as I watched the fight before me. The merchant was screeching and he would have kept up with his noisy 'FIND IT' had the blue-eyed man not leapt into action. One moment sitting calm and the next with a curved dagger to the suddenly very quiet merchant.

The fight came to a screeching stand still. I noted that a few of the participating sell swords were already bloody but it appeared no one had managed to land a lethal blow…yet.

"Tell your men to leave," said the blue-eyed man in a low hiss. "We don't want the Empire coming and investigating now do we?"

"Please," said the merchant.

"I gave you an order," said the blue-eyed man.

"You heard him," said the merchant whose entire face had gone a blotchy sort of white. "Go."

One by one, their faces dark and blood spattered across their dingy clothes, the sell swords hired by the merchant left the room. The silence was oppressive. I hoped they wouldn't stop to think about how much money they could make if not only the merchant died that night but the blue-eyed man, Laufin and I.

It was only then, as the various parties who had come to watch the auction, filed out that I saw the boy. He was a youth of about sixteen with dirty blonde hair. Someone had clearly tried to slit his throat and only been partially successful. He lay there, a hand clasped at his throat as blood seeped through his fingers. His clothes marked him as the lowest of the lowest in the social classes and he had a starved, desperate look to him.

"Go get the medallion," I said to Laufin with a brisk nod towards the blue-eyed man who was watching us with those keen hunter eyes of his. "And be very careful. You know what to look for to ensure that the article we are purchasing is genuine." With that I slipped the silk bag that contained the sapphire ring into Laufin's waiting hand and went over to the boy who was lying in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood.

This wasn't my battle field, I thought as bile rose within me. This was where Lucia belonged.

With one eye keeping a gauge on Laufin, I clasped my hand over the wound in the boy's neck. He wasn't old enough to be called a man. He wasn't old enough to die like this or for something as worthless of gold or jewels.

"Who are you?" coughed the boy as blood began to dribble around his mouth.

"That doesn't matter," I said calmly. I could feel the pulsing beat of the artery beneath my fingers. The magic began to flow within me, swift and intoxicating in its wild rushing. But the boy grabbed my wrist and met my gaze. I saw something there and I wondered what horror this youth had seen, whether he had ever known freedom or joy. Had his life been nothing but a struggle controlled by men and forced he could not hope to master?

"I am a healer," I said. "I need you to stay calm." It was a lie, a lie that I had told too often. Stay calm .

"I won't," said the boy and he coughed again, his blood splattering over my face. "You can't make me. You and your magic cannot make me stay here. This…this is mine. For once, once I can make my own choice. It is mine to make and no one…no one else can make it for me."

With fingers that should not have been so strong, the boy twisted my hands off the wound in his neck and turned his wound into the floor. It was just long enough for, even as I reached to stop him, to reason with this boy, I saw that there was nothing not even magic could fix. There was, I noticed, nothing but relief in the youth's face.

I rocked back from where I was kneeling and stood. I took in the various faces looking at me and said nothing. There wasn't anything I could say to these people.

Laufin was waiting by the door, the blue-eyed man had disappeared at some point in the last two minutes. With a flick of my finger I flipped a gold coin onto a table and moved to join my companion, making sure to listen for any movement that could signal danger.

It wasn't until we were three streets away from the pub and safely concealed in the shadows of a doorway that I asked: "You have it?"

"Yes," said Laufin and he drew out a golden circular medallion that could be worn on a chain.

I reached out and touched it. There was a little magic imbued in the coin but it matched the specifications that Marco had given me exactly. I sighed with relief.

"I hope," I said, "that this was worth it."

When Laufin and I had once more rejoined the Varden in the early hours of the morning, and I was settled back in my tiny tent did I allow myself to remember the the boy.

_My life and death are my own; they always have been and always will. Even if I do the living and the dying in a world not my own. Just as that boy chose his own fate yestereve and just as...no don't think of that. _

_We all die alone, just as Glaedr said and Gwydion when he first gave me a sword. My sense of duty to any of this - even Murtagh - could not keep me here if I was determined to leave. _

* * *

"You are Zoe's cousin?" asked the rebel leader, this woman who fought for the title of Queen whether she wanted to recognize it or not. She sat very upright in her straight backed chair, to her left, smoking a pipe as he regarded the conversation, was the elderly Brom who had brought Taren to this meeting on behalf of Zoe who had already departed for Belatona.

_"Nasuada is aware of your arrival although she was locked in negotiations in Feinster at the time." _

_"How many know about me? About you?" _

_"Few cousin. Very few and the fewer the better." _

"Yes," said Taren with a polite nod. "I am her cousin."

"And a warrior?"

"Yes."

Nasuada was silent for a moment and then she inquired, "In an effort to see how best you will assist the Varden in our campaign I must inquire: Are you of high rank in your own land? Have you experience with leadership?"

Taren resisted the urge to look to Brom for guidance. He knew from what Zoe had told him that Nasuada was unaware either of the depth of his cousin's knowledge or of the nature of her past. While the cunning and clearly observant Varden war leader had gleaned some things from casual comments or actions she had no idea of the true nature of this conflict. It was dangerous to open the door too far on this one. He recalled his cousin's brief words on the subject:

_'Nasuada is like a little ship caught in a storm. She sees the ocean around her, turbulent and violent, but she does not realize that her boat is only on the rim of the storm's eye. Already she struggles to stay afloat; our victory depends on her ability to lead the Varden and its allies.'_

_'You fear her cracking under the pressure if she knew the truth?' _

_Zoe looked at him hard and long. 'I think any one of us would crack.' _

"In our world," said Taren simply, "my family governs a stretch of coast line." There was no need, decided the young man, to say anything more. That was the truth and it did not need to include his cousin or their myriad of relations.

"What do you know of commanding men?" she asked, unmoving and still upon her chair. The questions were spoken casually but Taren sensed emotion behind them, saw the insecurity that curled like a snake behind her impressive facade of calm.

"Enough," said Taren. "I am no novice. Why?"

Nasuada stretched her hands before her, "We mean to go to war. I am sure you have been informed of our plan: to attack the heart of the Empire while it is still weak, and from their end the rein of the usurper, Galbatorix."

"It is a sound plan," said Taren. "And I seem to have become involved by some strange magic or twist of fate."

"I did not seek war," said Nasuada cooly as if he had never spoken and her entire manner became more guarded. "But as leader of the Varden and its allies I will do and have done my best to see this campaign to a victorious end." She clearly aimed to say more, to lay out what his position within this machine of war was to be or what it was not. But Taren did not answer to her but to a High King a world away and he felt no need to curb his tongue.

"Will your armies slaughter woman and children?" he asked bluntly. He needed to know now, before he committed himself to this just as, in her own way, Zoe had tested the ground when she first arrived at the Varden with Ajihad. "I am sure many would say you have good reason to invade the Empire. But will your soldiers raze the cities to the ground? Will they allow innocents their lives and messengers their say? Shall homes and means of income be snatched away to feed the war effort?"

Nasuada regarded him in something like surprise but she was too experienced in masking her emotions to let it show completely. Brom continued to puff on his pipe; whatever his opinion was he kept it to himself.

"What?" she responded stiffly. "I asked you here…"

Taren merely regarded her for a moment . Looking away from her, Taren moved to the large map spread out across one of the walls of the tent. He observed the neat markers and pieces of thread that marked the Varden's intended progress.

"Because the answer matters," he said without turning to look at her. "It matters a great deal."

With a gesture towards the map he continued, "Are you uncomfortable with the idea of men dying for you? Can you accept that the reward for this will be a crown? Would you encourage falsity because then you may never have to question yourself, because then you are free of the blame and complications of a dirty fight?"

Turning to face the very still Nasuada he continued, "As a healer must accept that one day they will injure a patient so must a general accept that the innocent and loyal will die because of their orders…so must a Queen."

With a flick of his finger he sent the miniature crown thumb tack that had been stuck through the centre of the city 'Uru'baen' tumbling towards Nasuada. It landed with a soft thunk in the soft fabric of her dress. He was, thought Taren with a flash of amusement, maybe being a bit over dramatic. Quietly, her face thoughtful, Nasuada picked up the crown and examined it as if she had never considered its intricacies before.

Still holding the crown in her open palm, Nasuada rose from her chair and descended so that she stood in front of him, an unreadable look in her dark eyes. "But it will end. It will end with the defeat of Galbatorix. I will see this land to peace, to a time beyond the reach of war. That is what the Varden and I have striven so hard to achieve."

"No," he said quietly. "On that I fear you are deluding yourself, Lady. The only place beyond the fighting, as you say, is death."

Nasuada looked away and he wondered if he had been too blunt with her. "I assume," she said as she returned to safe ground once more, "that you will place yourself under Zoe's command."

"She is family," he agreed. "But I believe she has placed herself under your command at least in part."

He did not comment that his definition of commander or commanding may differ from the one she was clearing inferring. His cousin and he had worked together for so long, often under the command of another, that they were more a team then a chain of leadership.

Nasuada gave a small snort of amusement, "I command her as much as I think anyone could command someone not of their world who fights a war not their own. I must trust to your judgement - and hers - in the coming weeks."

Taren nodded his head both in acceptance and sympathy for the challenge Nasuada faced in both him and his cousin. With a final small bow to the leader of the Varden, he prepared to leave but, before he could move towards the tent flap, Nasuada spoke again: "You have given me much to think about, Taren of Prydain."

"Good day Lady," he said with a small polite smile. With a nod to Brom who raised his pipe in silent acknowledgement, Taren turned and slipped out of Nasuada's command tent.

_"How changed and yet unchanged you are cousin." _

_"What do you mean by that?" Zoe's grey-blue eyes grew wider with worry and confusion. _

_"I don't know yet. But you are different somehow and not different at all."_


	3. Pond Weed and Magic Rings

_For a moment I met the focused eyes of Rider Eragon Shadeslayer before, in the heat and motion of battle, he was swept away. The Varden poured in through the shattered outer wall of the castle but they hung back, allowing the sapphire dragon, her Rider and his elvish guards, to dispose of the soldiers. _

_My sword caught the downward swing of a soldier's blow. With a flick of my wrist I disarmed him and sent him tumbling to the ground with a stunning blow to the head. I was in a bad spot, fighting in the guardhouse door with no one to guard my back. In one hand I clutched a faintly glowing spear made of a material neither wood nor metal; whose tip and shaft were carved with delicate runes…_

"Belatona," said Taren, "is won."

"It most certainly is," I said lifting my sword so that I could examine the blade for any lingering traces of blood and gore. Casting a look at my soaking wet cousin who was slowly but methodically divesting himself of his weapons, I inquired, "What happened to you?"

Taren snorted disgustedly. "I ended up getting completely turned around and, in an effort to prevent Nasuada from being prematurely killed by an arrow to the head, I got a ducking in the moat."

I snorted. "You have an affinity for getting dropped in moats, Taren."

He sent me a dark glare. "I do not," he said with as much dignity he could muster as he emptied the water and pond weeds from his quiver. "Besides, saving Nasuada from enchanted arrows seemed like a worthy cause. My swim," he said with an exaggerated bow, "was all in the name of self-sacrifice."

"Very worthy and self-sacrificing," I said with a chuckle as I tossed a bit of pond weed towards him. "But you are making my tent damp with who-knows-what kind of water."

"What happened to you?" asked Taren, ignoring my attempts to save my camp bed from getting any more soaked then it already was.

"Oh," I said pushing Taren's weapons onto the floor and throwing his cloak over a chair, "nothing too extraordinary unless you count climbing through Belatona's sewer, opening the gates and…."

"The sewer?" said Taren with a mix of fascinated horror and delight. "And you are complaining about me being a bit damp?" His eyes gleamed with mirth and he was clearly thoroughly enjoying the entire conversation.

I stood tall - or at least as tall as I could in my low-ceilinged tent - and said coldly, "I enchanted my clothes so that nothing…lingered." My nose unconsciously wrinkled. "Besides, Belatona's moat might as well be an open sewer system."

"What did it smell like?"

"You know perfectly well," I said irritably. "As I recall both you and Eomund resorted to a smilier strategy once. Sewers - in any world - share similar traits."

_The metal grate pulled away easily revealing a steep, dark drop. It was a primeval kind of fear, an emotion that originated from somewhere deep inside the conscious and subconscious mind, to be frightened of being alone someplace dark and isolating. I swallowed those thoughts and steeled myself for what I had to do. In one hand I gripped a thick coil of rope and, in the other, my sword. I longed for my light but it was miles and miles away serving as a token for Murtagh. _

_"I will go first," I informed my elvish companions. "You will follow quickly. I don't know how long we have before the guard changes and we cannot afford to be seen." _

Taren looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh and, despite the disgust that I felt towards my slimly journey through Belatona, I couldn't stop myself from chuckling. "I took two of Eragon's guard," I continued, "and had to flat-out order them to keep moving. I think if I ever want to recruit their services again I will have to provide a…drier path."

Taren outright burst into laughter. He was laughing so hard that he couldn't say anything except for the occasional word or phrase such as 'elf' or 'sewer' or 'what I wouldn't have…"

"That's enough," I said between my own chuckles which I had to smother with a hand to my mouth. "We really shouldn't laugh at their expense. It was awfully gallant of them to come at all and I would have been hopelessly outmatched at the guardhouse without."

"Why exactly," said Taren after he had calmed himself, "did you need to do at the guardhouse? Saphira breached the outer wall for the Varden and Eragon proved most capable of dispatching any guards."

"I needed to be in the courtyard," I replied, "before Eragon and Saphira arrived. The Empire had some mischief up its sleeve that I wanted to attend to first."

"Ah," said Taren with sudden understanding, "the matter of the lance. Strange weapon indeed, a magic I had never felt before. I hate to think…"

"Saphira survived the blow in the story I read," I said soberly. "But I did not want to risk anything. So I assassinated the man that was to do the actual killing. I left the lance in Arya's most capable hands. If I recall correctly what she said it's name is 'Niernen, the Orchid.'"

"Daring of you," said Taren. "Not Arya but deciding to storm the guardhouse."

"The Varden were right behind me" I defended. "As I was breaking into the guardhouse, Saphira was breaking down the wall. Besides, I wasn't 'storming' anything. The elves and I entered discreetly enough."

Taren sent me a look. I knew it well enough and so I returned his questions with one of my own: "But tell me more of what happened to you."

* * *

He paused in his cleaning and ordering of gear to regard his cousin. Zoe had settled on the edge of the heavy trunk that took up a corner of the narrow tent. She had already shucked herself of both gear and weapons, leaving them neatly stacked and ordered by the tent flap.

They had been in this position before, thought Taren, both of them meeting for a brief moment of conversation and reflection after an event - usually some sort of fight - and sharing everything from the humorous accounts to the gravest loses. But now, continued Taren to himself, it was different. This time they met in another world and Zoe had changed, not for the worse or the better, but he sometimes felt as if…no it didn't matter. She was still his cousin, still her in all the most important of ways.

"What happened to me?" repeated Taren as he regarded the throwing knife he had pulled from an inner pocket with a critical eye. The blade was slightly too short to do any really good in hand to hand combat, he should probably exchange it for something more appropriate but he was sentimental.

"Besides falling in the moat," said Zoe with her wry smile.

He chuckled at her words, "Was it you who blew up that wall?"

Zoe raised an eyebrow with a an almost playful smirk dancing across her face briefly. "Really Taren? I don't blow things up and kill Varden soldiers. I left Blodgarm to deal with the magician who was orchestrating the attack against Saphira. I only had a hand in the death of the would-be-dragon-slayer. The magic Blodgarm used to kill the magician weakened the castle's outer wall."

Zoe paused and then said quietly as she became deadly serious once more, "I believe that Roran Stronghammer and twenty of his men owe you their lives."

Taren shrugged quietly as he recalled the moment with perfect clarity…

_A high pitched squeal made the very air shiver in the bloody courtyard. _

_The sound was stabbing, slicing, shivering, like metal on stone. Taren knew immediately what it meant and his eyes quickly swept over the stone castle before him. His sword, still raised in defence, fell to his side as he found the foot-wide crack that had appeared beneath the destroyed window. His eyes suddenly fell on the group of Varden soldiers standing right beneath the crack. _

_Taren was quick on his feet. Racing forward he barked out the command and his voice, usually so soft and slow, became so hard and demanding that every single person - even Saphira - heard him with perfect clarity and felt an urge to obey. _

_"Stronghammer! MOVE!" _

_His warning came just in time. Roran and his men leapt to obey, dashing forward just as the wall shifted and dropped - leaning farther away from the rest of the building - pelting all the men who stood too close with rocks. _

"I did what I had to," said Taren simply. "It would not do for Eragon to lose his cousin now."

"No," agreed Zoe, "and especially as Roran still has a major part to play these next few weeks." Her face was lost in thought, become still like a deep pool in a sheltered cove.

"The were cats," said Taren after a moments pause, "did you know about them? Grimrr Halfpaw was most impressive."

"Indeed he was," agreed Zoe. "The were cats are a fascinating bunch and I look forward to seeing how they use this new alliance between their race and the Varden. My memory regarding their assistance is…well not what it once was."

Once more silence descended between the two. It was a comfortable silence, the silence of two people who were merely enjoying the friendship and bonds of kinship that bound them.

Uncounted minutes passed before it was broken. "The Varden will turn their attention to Dras'Leona now," said Zoe quietly to Taren.

"It is the logical step but you do not approve?"

"No that isn't it," said Zoe and she looked away, her face lost in shadow now. "Nasuada cannot afford to wait to attack Dras'Leona. Her campaign must be waged swiftly and decisively. But I am worried what trap Galbatorix has laid for us. In the story I knew it was Murtagh and a barricaded gate…but in this modified tale of events? Only fortune and fate may know."

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Taren a faint tendril of worry colouring his inquiry.

"I will speak to Brom," said Zoe slowly. "He must give Eragon…ah I see a little of what I must do. I must resume my real role in this army immediately: spy master."

Taren rolled his eyes, "Care to explain?"

Zoe grabbed his hand and pulled him after her; for all the world like she had done when they were children late for dinner. A new kind of energy sparked around her, fuelling her actions and determination. "Not at the moment cousin!"

But he saw her slip the golden medallion she had bargained for only a week before into a pocket and he saw the way her eyes focused. He sighed. Zoe was plotting and her plotting always resulted in something - even if the outcome was not entirely desired.

_It was no secret to anyone even distantly connected with the lord's family that Taren was frustrated by the slowness of his recovery from a horrific injury to his left shoulder. And so the letters came, letters from distant friends and relations who send news in an effort to distract the youngest Lord of Llyr from his brooding. _

_Lucia is one of the most frequent writers. Most likely, Taren decides, because she feels guilty that she isn't there to help him through his convalesce. _

_He skims the opening pages of letter that are filled with polio inquiries into his own days, remarks about how she misses the ocean, misses her time spent with him and her other cousins. __The distance of his cousins - not just Lucia - feels even more pronounced when he reads these letters despite the tenuous contact though ink and paper. And there is so little about what really matters.__The goings-on of her family are dutifully reported, but with such matter-of-fact precisions that he cannot picture it in the richness of detail that Lucia's writing could contain. She glazes over things, avoids speaking of anything that might raise the topic of her mother's - the High Queen - death. He knows, reading between the paper and ink, that distance has grown between the members of the High King's immediate family and that Lucia cannot bear to see it._

_She will come back, he reads. She will be coming back to the ocean and the peace, the comfort of her aunt and uncle's home. He hopes she will change her mind. He wants, wishes, that Lucia will see that to leave her family now, to flee once more, will only make things worse. __He wants to write her back. He wants to force Lucia, somehow, to drop this facade and speak to him plainly, but he does not._

_He cannot bring himself to write this. When he writes her in return, he requests that she travel with extra guards and that she not take for granted her safety in the mountain passes. He emphasizes how much she means to them all._

The memory was gone as quickly as it had come. Taren was still allowing Zoe to lead him through the Varden's camp: long rows of grey tents ringed by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly coloured pavilions sporting flags and pennants. They were headed in the vague direction of Brom's secluded tent, no doubt to discuss whatever it was that Zoe felt was crucially important all of a sudden.

But Taren cannot help but reminisce. In the years since that time, he had spoken only briefly with Zoe about it and her experience. He knew that, even with time, the loss of her mother and the traumatic events that had followed, had left an indelible mark on his cousin. It was she, as Eomund and Pethred retreated into isolated worlds of their own, as Lucia fled the pain of her fractured family for the comfort of her aunt and uncle's home, that Zoe had taken the burden her father could not carry alone in his grief-stricken state.

Taren's musings were cut short, however, by a the swish of a tent flap being drawn back. Following Zoe into the interior of Brom's cramped tent, he greeted the older man with a nod who had just risen from a table stacked with papers and ink pots which teetered precariously.

"Brom," said Zoe with no preamble, "what are you doing?"

"Organizing my papers," snapped the man. "What else would I be doing?" With a quick movement of his left hand Brom caught a stack of papers that was teetering on the edge of the narrow piece of furniture. "I don't suppose you have a reason for this…this disturbance."

Zoe was far from put off by Brom's unenthusiastic response.

She seemed quite used to his ways, mused Taren, and he used to her sudden appearances and disappearances.

"Jeod has been supplying you with books," began Zoe.

"Yes he has," said Brom with a suspicious look. "What does it matter?"

"It matters," said Zoe, "because I need him to focus his attention on something of grave importance: a way into Dras'Leona."

Taren leaned forward, his interest piqued at his cousin's words, his battle weariness falling away suddenly.

Brom was totally silent for a moment. "Why Jeod?"

"He has shown skill in this area before," said Zoe pointedly, "and I can think of few people more thorough in their research. I do not recall the details exactly," she said with a distant look on her face, "but it was Jeod who provided the answer or part of it."

"What else have you got to say?" asked Brom as he resettled himself in his chair.

Zoe stepped over to the table and rested her hands on the smooth wood. "Aren," she said determinedly.

"What of Aren?" asked Brom. His face was inscrutable but Taren sensed a kind of unease in the man. There was tightness to his shoulders and his entire demeanour that night was…unsettled? No, mused Taren, it was more than that. It seemed everyone - his cousin included - was gathering together loose ends as if in preparation for something and it lent them a kind of feverish energy and focus.

"Eragon will require it in the coming days," said Zoe. "It is time to pass it along."

Brom was very quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke there was a undercurrent of deep emotion in his voice, "I had thought to leave it for him when I passed on."

Zoe gave him a moment before she replied, "You have other stores of power, Brom. But Eragon has not had time to gather his own, to conserve for a time of need. He will need Aren before the end, Brom. It has a role to play."

"At least," said the old man, "give me some sort of idea of what role it is that you speak of."

Zoe's face clouded. "I can't remember all the details," she said. "I can remember the general idea but its been so long since I read the story, examined the plot lines. But I remembered Aren tonight and it is important. Eragon needs it and he would have had it had…" Zoe let her voice trail off.

"Had I been killed by the Raz'ac that night," completed Brom. "Very well," he said with a clap of his gnarled hands. "You will have your way, Zoe. Although this forgetfulness of yours concerns me."

Zoe shrugged and said, "My memory of some things remains very clear. But some things are not clear at all. I know that I am missing something, occasionally I can almost recall it but then it slips away." An uneasy look crossed her face.

"Well try to hang onto what you do know," said Brom gruffly. "Now begone with you both. I have some things to see to right now and then, I swear in the language of power, I will seek out my wayward son and give him Aren."

Taren rose and left with Zoe. The night air was humid, a thunderstorm was building in the inky night. The blackness was occasionally illuminated when a bolt of lightning shot through it. Dawn wasn't far off. The humid night air made him itch uncomfortably, reminding him that he was in desperate need of a clean change of clothes.

"I do not think of you as forgetful," remarked Taren quietly as they wandered through the tents.

"It is not like forgetting," said Zoe and there was a note of frustration in her voice. "Its not like the normal kind of forgetting…its not like the memory of what I read somehow slipped away - like memories are want to do. The details are there, reachable but always slipping away just as I focus on them."

"I think," said Taren, although he hated to voice something so unsettling, "that something or someone might not want you to remember the story in perfect detail."

The idea had come to him as he heard his cousin speak to Brom and, after all the strange and unnatural things which had brought them all together, it did not seem so far fetched an idea. There were greater powers at work than his cousin or himself. This entire war - both for the Empire of Alagaesia and the domination of all connected worlds - was fought on multiple levels. Who was to say that some power had not deemed it prudent to block Zoe's memories if only temporarily to seek some gain or foothold over their opponent?

"Perhaps," said Zoe, "but why or how I do not know. It is not something I can answer tonight."

The two came to a halt on the edge of the Varden's camp. They were on a small ridge which overlooked Leona Lake. The water stretched out before them, a black disc that occasionally glinted with reflected light from the occasional lightning strike that shot through the approaching thunderstorm.

"Zoe," said Taren, "what will you do?"

"When this is over?"

"Yes."

"I don't know," said his cousin quietly. "I have become invested in this world. I did not intend to, did not plan to but it happened. This war is, anyways, far from over."

"Wars do not last forever," reminded Taren. "Sooner or later Zoe…you will have to choose. This world or home. You cannot have both."

"I know," said Zoe and her voice was heavy with emotion, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. Taren knew, at that moment, she was thinking of Murtagh, Eragon's half-brother. "I have always known that in my heart. I cannot abandon Prydain, cannot forsake my home, my duty and…and my family."

"Do you remember," said Taren suddenly, "that semiprivate dinner we had with that our old bat of a grandmother?"

Zoe raised an eyebrow at the sudden and most unexpected turn in the conversation. "I can remember a few dinners. Most of them were completely horrendous and we all left the table feeling as if she had reduced us all to piles of smouldering ash."

He waved a hand at her words. "There was one, the last one we had with her before she passed the circles of the world. She was giving me an absolutely rotten time of it because I wasn't showing half as much potential as a she had hoped I would as a sailor and navigator. All she could speak of was Gen's talent and my lack of thereof."

"Taren…" began Zoe exasperatedly.

"Listen," continued Taren sharply, "because its important. You interrupted her." In a final rush, desperate to make Zoe see the sense behind his random story, Taren completed what he wanted to say. "You knew that I was ready to practically melt into my chair with embarrassment and shame. When I thanked you over the second course, you said 'I fell on that blade for you.' You've fallen on other blades - both real and literal - for me and, really, for all of us. I think Brom, Eragon, Arya and...and Murtagh would agree. Maybe," he continued, "you should remember that we would do the same for you. "

Zoe met his gaze and a faint smile crossed her face. "I am glad you came here," she said quietly. "It frightened me at first but now…now I am not sure how I managed without your wise advice, Taren."

He smiled, "We should go back. I still have to clean out the pond weed from my quiver."

Zoe and his combined laughter rang briefly in the still, humid night air.

* * *

_Armies do not have permanent address. _

_Marco does not know his commander's current location. He assumes, rightly, that it is a temporary place and that by the time he tracked down the proper location his commander would already have moved on to a new, equally temporary residence._

_Often it is his commander who contacts him first. _

_He was standing by a dimly lit window in Aroughs when the first symbol appeared. It was raining hard outside, a summer thunderstorm was battering the small Empire city and the sudden change in air pressure and temperature had caused the single window and the mirror Marco had hung next to it to fog up. _

_Suddenly another symbol appeared and Marco, catching sight of what was happening in the previously fogged glass, hurried over. It was as if a ghostly hand was carefully drawing lines in the clouded surface of the mirror. Another line appeared and then another. The symbols come quickly then, mostly indistinguishable unless the light hits them at precise angles but he knew what to look for. _

_The message is clear: Return to the Varden immediately._

Marco paused on a slight rise in the road to examine the scene spread out before him. He raised a hand to shade his sweaty face from the intense glare of the slowly descending sun.

Dras'Leona.

It was a city of men. A city of sprawling streets hemmed in by a heavily guarded wall. He knew Dras'Leona. He knew the crowded, dirty and smelly streets, overshadowed by the massive cathedral. Built in the centre of the city, the cathedral dwarfed every other building and its shadow was long and dark. It's vaulted towers and complicated carvings had been built by slaves, many of whom had paid both in blood and sweat for this monument to corruption and hatred.

Marco's jaw tightened.

He knew well the pain of losing one's freedom; the indignity of becoming an object another controlled and could dispose of at whim. Born free, enslaved and then set free again, Marco knew he would do anything - even if it meant suicide - to remain free of another man's ownership. The courtyards in the very centre of Dras'Leona was a place he had hoped only to revisit in the darkest of his nightmares.

The young man fingered the gold medallion in his pocket. He didn't have much time to accomplish the task set by his commander but, for once, he felt he had the tools he needed. It was a far cry from his first mission for the Varden as a recently freed and very angry young man two years previously. His desire for revenge had clouded his common sense, he saw that now and the foolish risks he had taken just to prove his worth.

_"What is it you want me to do?" asked Marco warily. He had traveled long and far to return in time for whatever urgent mission Liana had for him now. From his current mission as information gatherer in Aroughs he had had ridden through the day and night to reach the Varden's camp outside of the newly captured Belatona. _

_Liana was dressed for combat. There was no trace of the serving wench she had played at being in Feinster. Her face was half in shadow and half not, a grim set to her mouth and eyes. "I need you to find out what Galbatorix has in store for us in Dras'Leona."_

_"What do you mean?" She wasn't telling him everything. He could see more in her quiet face and, if Liana expected him to go all the way into the heart of that hated place, she needed to give him every single detail. _

_"Dras'Leona is an important Empire city," said Liana simply. "Galbatorix will have some sort of defence - something far more powerful - then more soldiers or a thicker gate. I need you to find out what is waiting for us." _

_"Is that all you know?" he inquired further. "Or all that I should know?" _

_A half smile crossed Liana's face. "At this point it is all I know," she said, "but I have my suspicions. It is like knowing that a storm is coming, the shift in the air around it. Galdbatorix will have something waiting for us." _

_As he regarded her in the half shadowed tent, it strikes him that she is a far deal older than she appears. It was like looking at someone in a painting and realizing that the person is no longer the same age as they were when the work was originally done, and they seem farther away because of it. "You aren't done with me are you?"_

_"No," she said, "I have more to tell you and something to give you as well."_

_"What is there to tell?" he asked. _

_"I hope to give you some warning," said Liana quietly, "but I might not be able to. It is possible that there is a way into Dras'Leona - a secret way - but…" she shrugged. _

_He understood. "I will await further instructions on that matter then," was all he said. Secretly, however, he scoffed at her words. Feinster was one of the oldest - and least cared for - Empire city and so, of course, there had been forgotten ways into the inner keep, remnants of previous centuries. But Dras'Leona? _

Marco fingered the golden medallion carefully hidden in an inner pocket. He had no idea how Liana had ended up with such a precious commodity but she had. The young man supposed it was a great sign of trust for her to give it to him but it was more than that to. It was an unspoken signal, a kind of passing of the torch and Marco suspected that Liana was preparing for something. He suspected that she didn't know either and Marco understood, knew that in such uncertain times one could not take for granted anything.

He followed the trickle of slow moving cart horses and refugees that were making their way towards the main city gates. It had taken him longer then it usually did to ready himself for this journey. Always - a terror that clung to him whenever and wherever he was - was the fear of being recognized by someone from…from before. The likelihood of it actually becoming real was an all too real possibility in this city.

Marco ran a hand over his clothes and brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face. He was not so ragged as to attract jeers and unwanted anger but ragged enough to blend in with the other pale faced refugees.

With a final steadying breath he stepped into the enormous, engulfing shadow of Dras'Leona.

* * *

The early dawn world spun around him in a dizzying mix of green and blue.

_Thorn! Slow down!_

_No! You must become accustomed to this, _replied the young dragon as he dived straight down before corkscrewing back up. It was the second time since Thorn's hatching that Murtagh had flown with the young dragon. However, ever since arriving in Du Weldenvarden, the red dragon had been practicing with Glaedr and had quickly become comfortable in the air.

Murtagh loosened his grip on the spike in front of him as Thorn levelled out just above the tree tops. The young man felt light for a few brief moments. Since arriving in Du Weldenvarden a few weeks before, his days had become filled with lessons in many shapes and forms overseen by the ancient Rider, Oromis, and his dragon, Glaedr. Since his first visit to the forge, he had taken to sparring with Runon, the elf smith, in the evenings as twilight cloaked the ancient tree city in shadow.

His days, reflected Murtagh, had taken on a strange rhythm broken only by Eragon and Saphira's visit and the night of the Varden's siege on Feinster. He was unsure how he felt about the direction his life had taken. Mostly because of…

_You miss her, _said Thorn rather petulantly as he drifted aimlessly on an air current.

Murtagh resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _No Thorn, _he said with a sarcastically. _I miss sleeping on army cots and listening to Orrin complain about broken quills. _

The young dragon had grudgingly accepted that, while he was Murtagh's companion of heart and soul, there was another who vied for the red Rider's attention.

_We need to go, _reminded the Rider. _Oromis and Glaedr will be expecting us soon. _

_You can admit that you don't actually want to go, _said Thorn even as he turned his wings to the left and began to angle towards the white cliffs.

_It's not that I don't want to go…its that I am nervous of going, _admitted the Rider in candidly.

It was true, he reflected. Oromis had informed the previous evening that he felt it was time for Murtagh to develop his magical abilities. The mere thought of wielding magic made Murtagh's gut clench and his skin crawl. It was magic that had led to this whole tragic mess and it was magic that, above all else, Murtagh distrusted and feared with every fibre of his being.

_But I am magic, _said Thorn. _Zoe is magic. Magic is what connects us. We live and breathe within a world of magic. _The note of frustration in the young dragon's voice grew, _When will you see that Murtagh? I can't explain it any differently. _

Murtagh had no response for that. As Thorn was want to do he had completely squashed Murtagh's fears and doubts with a few well chosen words.

The pair landed on the Craigs of Tel'nar. After formal greetings Thorn and Glaedr left, leaving Oormis and Murtagh to retreat into the small cottage. The two Riders taking opposite chairs at the small table.

"Where do we start?" asked Murtagh with only a trace of apprehension.

"At the beginning," said Oromis simply. "And that beginning - at least for you - is the dragon's mark on your palm."

Murtagh did not say he 'doesn't understand' or that he 'doesn't really care. He knows better than to say that and he also knows better than to try and rush his teacher. Oromis cannot be rushed or pressured, Murtagh had learned that in the first ten minutes of his first lesson.

"Bindings such as this are permanent," continued Oromis quietly. "The connection that links you to Thorn is such a bond. If it breaks you would be whole but not complete."

There is something about what Oromis is saying - a version of every explanation of the dragon bond Murtagh has ever read - that gives the red Rider pause. This time there is something in the delivery, the quiet seriousness of Oromis's face that hunts at something more.

"What am I bound to?" asked Murtagh as he examined the bright white mark on his hand. "It is more than Thorn isn't it? More than the bond we share as Rider and dragon."

Oromis steepled his fingers. "It is an obligation both to Thorn and the ancient agreement made between our races. But it an obligation to magic, to the web of power that underpins our whole world."

Murtagh stared at the mark on his palm. "Everything comes back to magic," he said without stopping to think. "This war - the war for the control of the worlds - comes back to who can master magic."

"To some extent," said Oromis. "But no one can ever truly master magic. Even if Galbatorix was to learn its true name and bind it with chains he cannot contain every single aspect of it. There is magic in the work of a skilled engineer or the hands of a gardner labouring day in and day out."

"You are speaking of ordinary things," said Marco. "They are the kinds of things that Galbatorix considers beneath notice."

"That is the way most magicians think," said Oromis. "Even my own people - attuned to the natural world - forget this side of magic."

"What does this have to do with my learning of magic?"

"You must understand it," said Oromis, "and how it has been a force in your life even if you weren't aware of it. Besides," continued the elf, "I know you have received extensive tutoring in magical theory but I will teach you nuances of spell weaving that no Empire mage could even dream of. My instruction is for you - Rider of Thorn - and so we must begin a little differently."

Murtagh remembered something then, a moment from his past, with a cold twist of his gut. Artansia had been and, for all he knew, was still a mage in Galbatorix's court. She had, like most mages at Court, been wrenched from her home as a young child after demonstrating some capacity with magic and, after a gruelling trial period, been brought to Court for further instruction. The trauma, discipline and demands placed on her had made Artanisa little more than a statute. She spoke only when spoken to and was completely devoted to the King. For a little while she had been one of Murtagh's retinue; a reminder to the teenager that Galabortix not only wanted to be informed of any sign of magic in the Son of Morzan but also as another chain, another hurdle, between freedom and Court.

_"All of this," he gestured at the books and papers, "is about breaking things up, changing them forever. Can magic work the other way?"_

_Artansia turned her blank, emotionless eyes to his curious ones. They were sitting in the study where Murtagh took most of his lessons in everything from history to dancing to, most recently, magical theory. _

_"I mean," elaborated Murtagh, "can you fix whats broken? Change things back to what they were before?" _

_In response, Artansia put a hand to the sash of her grey and purple mage robes and removed a dagger with a black hilt. Holding it in her right hand, she placed her left palm down on the table, over the scattered pages of notes and diagrams. Without hesitating, she plunged the blade into the back of her hand, piercing through skin and flesh and paper and into the polished oak. _

_Murtagh flinched, but said nothing. _

_Artanisa pried the dagger up, her hand and a piece of parchment still impaled on the blade, blood beginning to drip down to her wrist. She held out her hand and turned it slowly, presenting it to him with an air of complete calm. _

_Then, with her other hand, she removed the dagger, the bodied page fluttering down. In a low voice she began to chant. The droplets of blood rolled backward, seeping into the gash in her palm which then shrinked and disappeared until there was no more tun a sharp red line on her white skin, and then nothing. She tapped the page, murmured again, and the blood disappeared. The rip in the thin parchment material left by the blade was no longer visible. _

_Murtagh picked up the piece of paper. In her own way Artansia had given him more of an answer then he had bargained for and also a warning that he should be more careful in his questions. _

_Suddenly Artansia spoke, "It is easier to break things, Lord. It is harder to mend - not impossible but harder and they are never the same." _

Oromis interrupted his memory with a quick flick of his fingers, snapping Murtagh back to his present location and the task before him. "It is time, Murtagh, for you to reach out to magic. I want you to…"


	4. Chapter 4

_I didn't know where I was. But there was the smell of soil, the shade of trees, and the sound of running water._

_I was not dead._

_It was dark. I could barely make out my surroundings but, on my right, there was the gleam of something silver that caught enough of the moonlight to make it distinguishable from the shadows._

_I blinked. The silver was still until a wind faintly rustled a few of the leaves above me; the silver seemed to flutter, like a curtain, before it settled and became motionless once more._

_It was hair, I realized. And then a flash of moonlight broke through the trees and I saw the eyes. I was unable to move, a flash of fear made my breath catch._

_A voice spoke: "You're awake."_

_I opened my mouth but no sound came out. It didn't surprise me although it did unnerve me more than I was willing to admit. I had seen it before in people, in soldiers mostly, who had suffered trauma, physical or mental, to the head._

_"I will not harm you," he said. "I am going to take you to someone we both know: Dallban of Caer Dallban."_

* * *

"Was it wise to send Marco?" asked Taren.

"Wiser then trying to discern the Empire's plans via crystal ball," I said shortly. My tent had been recently pitched on the outskirts of the Varden's camp which lay somewhat south of the sprawling mess of Dras-Leona.

Taren sent me a frosted glare, "You know what I mean."

"If you think," I said without glancing at my cousin, "that I am just going to tell you the code so you can…"

"That," said Taren emphatically, "is exactly what you will do."

"You can't be serious," I said. I was still trying to desperately back peddle, to stop the madness that I knew was this plan. I felt like a horse balking at a stream or a bird burying my head in the sand. I did not want to see what was being presented before me.

"I am very serious," said Taren stepping a little closer. "The Empire does not know my face. So far, during my time here, I have remained as nothing more than a forgettable footnote standing five feet behind everyone." Continuing, his voice growing slightly desperate, Taren said, "If I don't do something - anything - I will lose my mind."

I tried to laugh but it came out as more of a choked splutter. "You never were meant for inactivity, cousin…"

"No," he said shortly, "I wasn't."

"What if you don't come back?"

Taren didn't turn around. "Your not one to talk about coming back, Zoe."

The sting of those words made my gut clench painfully. But I never got to retort - to demand that he explain himself. There came, from outside my low ceilinged command tent, the sounds of hurried feet and a high voice that quivered with excitement: "Lady! I must speak with you!"

Behind me Taren leapt to his feet and, with a feeling of complete bewilderment, I swept the flap of the tent back and stepped out into the bright sunlight. Before me, his narrow face shining with excited delight, was Jeod. In one hand he clutched a ragged scrap of parchment and behind him was a gaggle of curious spectators who had clearly heard his excited cry.

Sudden understanding sent a leap of adrenalin through me, I gripped his upper arm tightly and ushered him into the tent before more curious spectators could gather. Taren moved forward then to dispel the throng, a charming smile growing on his handsome face and, while I was too focused on Jeod to listen, I heard him speaking into low tones. Knowing Taren, he would have the entire group dispersed in under five minutes all thinking that the matter was something trivial and better forgotten.

He has always underestimated himself.

"Jeod," I said the minute the tent flap settled behind us, "I don't have to ask what you found. Did Brom tell you to come to me if you had success?"

"He did," said the man and his eyes, already sharp and keen with intelligence, now gleamed with satisfaction. "At first I doubted that I could do anything to help you but Brom insisted and I've found it!"

"I thought you could," I said with a feeling of relief. It had weighed heavily on me this matter of entering Dras'Leona especially once the Varden reached the outskirts of the city and set up camp. I had been forced to trust that, like he had in the original story, Jeod would come through and he had. Perhaps earlier then he should have in the original story line but he had. I breathed a little easier.

Leaning forward and dropping his voice Jeod whispered, "All my searching has finally come to fruition. I've discovered a tunnel that leads straight into the heart of Dras'Leona."

I straightened and, with a wave of my hand, gestured for Jeod to follow me. "You will have to explain this. We should go to Nasuada and Orrin. Come with me…"

With Jeod pressing quickly on my heels and Taren pacing along quietly beside me, the three of us made our way into the heart of the Varden's encampment. It didn't take long for the whole story to be presented by the excited man. His voice bubbling and his eyes shining, Jeod explained exactly what he had unearthed in an ancient text: a tunnel into Dras-Leona.

My reaction hadn't been as satisfying as Jeod had hoped for although the rest more than made up for my sigh of utter relief and half glancing look at Taren who also appeared vaguely relieved. Orrin and Nasuada had Jeod explain it three times. Brom and Arya, meanwhile, sat in silence with eyes completely focused on the man. Eragon, leaning against Saphira, looked weary but intrigued and both Rider and dragon's eyes kept flicking towards me a clear question in their depths. Orik, his face inscrutable behind his beard, only interjected once to comment that any tunnel built beneath Dras-Leona would be very narrow because of the type of soil. By the time Jeod finished he looked frazzled and his usually perfect pernoctation had begun to slip.

I opened my mouth, ready to speak but I never got the chance.

"Zoe," said Taren, "a word."

I glanced at my cousin, my eyebrows rising as I took in his determined stance and set jaw. I knew that look and, in a flash, our earlier conversation returned. Under the surprised gazes of the others, the two of us left the command tent and moved a few feet away.

"I will go," said Taren but he did not speak in the common language used by most in Alagaesia or even in the Ancient Language. He spoke in the quicksilver tongue of the high houses of Prydain, a language that served a dual purpose as the official language of state and the spoken form of spellweaving. "I will explore this tunnel - if such a tunnel exists - and make contact with Marco."

I could have argued. But part of me was furious with him for his casual statement about my…well about my loyalty. I knew that it should not be anger but duty and responsibility to the campaign not any sentiments of my heart or any desire to resolve a wedge that, somehow, had been driven between us that should drive my decision. It should be this: Taren would be thorough in his investigation and he knew enough of enchantments to discover any magical traps.

"You will leave tonight?"

"Yes."

I nodded once. "But if anything goes wrong then I will come after you."

He knew the unspoken subtext: I will come after you because…because I've always come after those I love. That hasn't changed at all.

"I know."

"Well," I said, "go well then, cousin."

Taren gripped my forearm tightly and then he left in a swish of his dark blue cloak. I bit my lower lip and, closing my eyes briefly counted to ten in an effort to calm my racing heart and nerves. Clasping my hands in front of me I returned to the tent where, much as I had feared, the debate had descended into a familiar one: Nasuada argued for pursuing Jeod's suggested route and Orrin wanted to stay put.

I say familiar because it was. Throughout the campaign Nasuada and Orrin had approached it from radically opposite viewpoints and both found it hard to back down from their firmly established positions without a grave loss of face. I had given up trying to mediate between the two when I realized that not only did I lack the bulldog tenacity of Brom but also the respect of Orrin who had yet to forgive me for my brusque handling of affairs after the Battle of the Burning Plains.

Arya, her face pinched, slipped up beside me. "What say you, Zoe?"

"Taren has gone to investigate," I murmured back watching Orrin and Nasuada throw more words at each other. Brom, his face looking increasingly red, seemed to be trying to find a moment to interject. "I know the tunnel exists but I do not yet know how best to use it nor what waits for us in Dras'Leona."

Finally Brom broke into the increasingly heated quarrel between the two commanders, "Both of you are losing sight of the most important thing: the siege of Dras'Leona. How best can we use what we have and know?"

Orik grunted in agreement. I moved forward, ready to explain about Taren but, once more, I was cut off.

Nasuada swept her skirt around, "We cannot risk sending scouts - hidden by magic or not - to the areas Jeod suspects the tunnel entrance is. No, we must act as if the tunnel exists and make our decisions accordingly. If events prove otherwise, it won't have cost us anything, but if the tunnel is there ... it should allow us to capture Dras-Leona once and for all." Orrin looked ready to break in again with another heated argument but Nasuada continued, "We need something bold; something ... unexpected."

Eragon snorted softly. "Perhaps you should consult Roran, then."

The Rider's little dig, I knew, was in reference to his cousin's recent departure for Aroughs - a small Empire city that was proving rather difficult to secure for Varden forces. Roran's departure from the Varden had been sudden and Eragon had had no chance to speak with his cousin or clarify exactly what it was Roran would be tasked with. Eragon, unsurprisingly, had not taken it well. I had not been present for the angry shouting match between Rider and General but Arya had returned from it with a thunderous expression on her normally implacable face and angry words about 'the dangers of family...why can't humans be sensible...it's a _war _for the love of...' and other such things.

"I have no need of Roran's help in devising my plans, Eragon." The cold snap in that voice made the Rider's eyebrow rise and he looked ready to argue the point if only for the sake of emphasizing his displeasure over the Roran situation.

_Which will gets absolutely nowhere, _I thought furiously. _H__onestly, Eragon. _

"Your majesties," I said coolly, "if I may interrupt? As captain of the Varden's spy network I have done my best to research potential entrances as well as hidden dangers in Dras'Leona. As we speak one of my most trusted spies is trying to determine what exactly Galbatorix has planned for us." I raised a forestalling hand, "And my cousin, the Lord Taren, has already departed for Dras'Leona in the hopes of further investigating what exactly Jeod has discovered."

Silence reigned for a minute as each of the resident leaders considered my words. Brom was the first to speak, "How will Lord Taren enter the city?"

"One gate remains open," I said confidently, "because of the large number of citizens who still desire the protection of Dras'Leona's walls. I expect the gate will be sealed some time tonight but Taren should make it in time. He is a master of disguises."

My confidence was not real but there wasn't a chance that I would show that. Orrin would leap on any shred of doubt or concern without a moment's hesitation and I could not afford that. Even Orik, normally a stalwart supporter, did not appear to be in the mood to tolerate shaky answers.

"If," said Orik, "such a tunnel does exist and Lord Taren succeeds in locating - potentially opening it - undetected. Well? What then?"

Orrin raised a hand and his entire expression was one of triumph as if he was a little boy about to point out exactly why he was right in every way.

Arya spoke then, however, in her cool lyrical voice: "Very simple, my Lord, we make use of the tunnel and the access it provides the front gates of Dras'Leona. A small group of warriors, trained in magic, would be able to enter the city."

"Bold," said Brom slowly, "and unexpected."

His dark eyes were beginning to gleam in that slightly manic way that I recognized from way back when I had first met the elderly man. It was a warning: Brom was hatching a plan - a completely insane and daredevil in the most intense way kind of plan. I noted, with some concern, that Aren remained on his hand.

"But how," demanded Orik, "is anyone supposed to manage that? It would be difficult enough if all they had to face were the hundreds of soldiers stationed in the area, but in case you have forgotten, Galbatorix could have planted any number of traps - even another shadow dragon and Rider."

"And that," I responded, "is exactly why Lord Taren and my spies are in Dras'Leona right now. While none of them are magic users they are all adept at discovering where and how magic has been used. If Galbatorix has planted another shadow dragon or Rider - or any other large trap - there will be significant traces of magical power or at least signs of heavy guarding through magic." I raised a forestalling hand before Orrin (who looked increasingly put out to be interrupted) or anyone else could prevent me from finishing. "As for who would go? I put that to you, Lady Nasuada, King Orik and to you, King Orrin."

_A summer day...a garden and a glossy book with pages that were unnaturally thick and even: "Oh, and what am I, chopped liver?"_

_Angela._

Angela was part of this, I thought as I cast a glance around the tent but to no avail. Where was she? She played a role, a very very important role, and she was currently missing in action.

But Eragon spoke again. "I will go," he said very calmly.

The tent erupted in overlapping voices. Jeod, sandwiched between Brom and a heavily laden table, was clutching his books and looking increasingly nervous. I didn't blame him, it is never particularly reassuring to see just how childish actual debates between people of power can get when trying to work with each other.

But it was Brom's who won out in the end, "Enough!" Into the recently descended silence the man said, "Before any decisions are made on who goes or who doesn't, Lady Zoe must receive word from her agents in Dras'Leona. Until then it is foolish to enter into this debate while other matters press close at hand."

And with those words from Brom I beat a hasty retreat with a neat, "And with that I will leave."

It was a relief to be out of the cramped tent. I waited for a few moments until Arya joined me, her normally cool features appearing slightly flustered. All this talk of tunnels and Riders doing dangerous things had her slightly riled up. I wondered at this new, more emotional Arya and I could not help but wonder if it had anything to do with an increasingly close friendship between elf and Rider.

"Walk with me," I said.

She did. The two of us matching our steps to the other as we began to move away from the command tent and towards a stand of old growth trees where the elves, Brom and I had set up camp. The Varden had commandeered many once carefully tended fields and homesteads for their tents.

"How much do you know about what is going on?" demanded Arya at last in the Ancient Language.

"Not enough," I admitted candidly.

"Is that why your cousin left?"

"Not entirely," I said evasively. I was unwilling to tell the elf just how significant the gaps in my once perfect memory were. I was also very unwilling to explain to her what the original story line had been: Murtagh and Thorn watching every move made by the Varden from the battlements of Dras'Leona while the Priests of Helgrind prepared a nasty surprise that resulted in the death of one of the elven spell casters.

"Then why?" The elf's voice sharpened, "Why won't you just tell me? What could possibly be wrong with just telling me?"  
I think you know why, Arya.

I turned away from the Varden and continued walking, forcing the elf to match me once more if she wished to continue the conversation.

"I still think it would be wise," said Arya when it became clear I would not reply. "If not the whole story then parts of it."

I shook my head. "Maybe but not right now - not yet. I don't want to say anything until I hear from Taren or Marco."  
We parted although Arya looked reluctant. Her eyes demanding answers even though she had the grace to accept my refusal for the time being.

The tent which for almost six months had been the beginning and the end of my days, clung to my clothes as I pushed my way through the flap and the wards that had been layered on the fabric. It was only when I once stood in my tent, alone, that I allowed my walls to fall and I stared blankly at the canvas before me. I felt stifled, magic layering on top of magic until the very air seemed heavy with it.

Fear. Enchantment. Power. Love.

I felt as if I was choking.

* * *

Where was he?

Taren stopped in front of the glass windows of a shop and stayed at his reflection in the fading afternoon sunset. He was standing half in shadow and half not. Taren saw fear in his face but fear was an emotion he had grown to like. It lured him to places, through forbidden doors, and away from the limitations of his position in the world, feeding into that yearning, still not quenched completely by age and experience, to prove himself.

Zoe had claimed that it would be her pride that would kill her one day. Taren knew, however, that it would be his own insecurities about his worth that would send him towards an open grave. Where, he sometimes wondered, was his pride? Where was the surety that he saw in his cousins and brother as they delivered orders in clear voices?

Wandering the streets of a city dressed as a no one was a strange sensation. He felt clear headed but distant, not attached to anything solid or stable. Taren knew he was supposed to meet Marco but he could not help but linger slightly, slow his steps down to an unhurried pace. Most of the city seemed to have retreated indoors but there was enough of a crowd on the wider streets for the disguised warrior to blend in.

He had been lucky to make it through the gates even as they had begun to rumble shut. Even luckier to be passed off as just another refugee by the dull eyed guards. Taren had forced himself not to look back at the many grey faced refugees who had not been so lucky. Turned away by the city they had struggled to reach.

Part of him justified this slowness, this almost reluctant movement, as a way of blending in but, in reality, he merely wanted the time to himself. Zoe had been right when she had stated that inactivity did not sit well with him. It led to brooding and he couldn't shake that unless he was doing something.

Taren scuffed a boot on the edge of cobblestone. He was angry with Zoe. The anger had grown and he had to do something about - extinguish it before he met Marco and was swept up in this mad cap adventure any more than he already was.

_'I'll come back.'_

Lucia had always said that she would. 'She'll come back,' she said time and again back when they had all been at war and their cities had been laid to ruin and waste. 'I know it. And she'll find a way. She loves us. Even though she isn't always very good at showing it.'

But Taren wasn't so sure anymore. He thought now after observing his cousin that his answer to Lucia's assurances might be more like: You don't know her anymore. Zoe has never been able to accept that not everything turns out right, that some things and some people…

Taren cut the thought off mid sentence. He adverted his face from the harsh sunlight and paused at the entrance to a narrow alley between two buildings to rest his back against the hot stone. He gazed up at a narrow strip of blue sky framed by the buildings. Deep down he was scared, truly and terribly frightened. As usual, he thought bitterly, his anger came from fear. What if she didn't come back?

He longed to shake Zoe. He wanted to yell the Oaths of Angard and the Seven High Houses until Zoe recalled them. Taren wanted to sit her down and remind her word for word the final words that Zoe's father had spoken to her in their final parting. Something, anything, to break through the mist that dulled what should have been poignant memories and commitments that went beyond any and every other loyalty. Zoe should be fighting to get back to Prydain not pulling the other way. He had heard hesitation in her voice when it was hinted at, seen her eyes spark with something more when there was mention of Murtagh…

Was that why the powers that be had brought him here? To counter act the pull of this world on Zoe? To remind her that, while easier to think only of Alagesia in this fight, they were bound by oaths as old as Prydain itself? She'll need you. You've always needed her, haven't you?

Taren calmed himself with a few deep, measured breaths. He would have to speak with Zoe and speak with her soon. The conversation would be unpleasant but better that than nothing at all.

He left his corner and moved back into the street, hunching his shoulders and blending in with the sparse crowd until…

"I thought you would never come."

Marco had come up beside him, falling into step with him. His face was carefully blank and Taren allowed him to subtly direct their walk back towards the encircling outer wall of Dras'Leona.

"This sort of thing takes time," said Taren quietly, "and it was harder then I expected to enter the city."

"You came just in time," said Marco. "They will not open any of the gates until this…this matter is decided."

Marco gestured discreetly at a narrow alley to their left. For all intents and purposes they resembled two plain clothes workmen. The guards, while suspicious, did not challenge them. The two men — both too experienced in this subtle way of moving — slipped into the gap between two dark buildings when a small group of refugees blocked them from view from two Empire soldiers.

"Climb," hissed Marco when they reached the end of the alley. "And don't worry about the dog."

Taren cast him a brief look, forcefully quashing the instinct to question the other man before climbing up the slick bricks. Finding a handhold - nothing more than a slight crevice between two bricks - he pulled himself off the dark ground and towards the slowly darkening blue sky of this strange world.

Taren half dropped and half climbed down the other side of wall. He found himself in a narrow back yard where someone had attempted to grow a number of medicinal plants in pots. The house itself was dark and the back door looked securely closed. It was a well cared for and tidy little spot. But it was the dog that had Taren transfixed.

If one could call it a dog at all.

About the size of a small pony it was black and its coat matted with dirt and tangles, it reminded him of the wolves that he had occasionally hunted in the North. Its eyes were narrowed and blank. Every muscle was tensed and Taren suspected that any moment it would decide to leap directly at his throat. If that did happen Taren's best chance at survival was a swift jab of a dagger into its underbelly.

A low hiss, however, made the increasingly tense staring contest between man and dog end. Marco dropped down a moment later beside Taren and, in a low voice to the dog, said, "It's me you old thing. Remember me? Your old friend?" The man stretched out a hand towards the dog, bending down slightly so he was eye level with it. Taren, not comfortable with wolfish looking dogs to begin with, remained close the wall.

The dog seemed torn between attacking and wagging its tail. It let out a low whine and its eyes, one moment as blank, had softened fractionally. After a few long moments it took a step forward and then another until it could sniff the proffered hand. Whatever it smelt clearly reassured it, however, because with a whine it suddenly jumped forward and completely bowled Marco over.

"That's enough you silly thing," said the man, vainly attempting to get back to his feet. But the dog, clearly thrilled, was making it exceedingly difficult.

Taren glanced at the house. He studied the door, he could sense a mind although he was not as skilled as Zoe was in reaching out and feeling another person's consciousness. Even as he realized, however, that they were not alone the back door opened. Taren's hand fell to handle of his sword discreetly hidden by a glamour. He felt uneasy.

A woman stepped out. Her eyes were fixed on the dog still madly licking Marco's face and the young man who was half laughing and half cursing as he tried to push the joyous dog off. She was dressed in clear if simple clothes but her face showed signs of premature aging - lines were etched around her mouth and eyes. Her eyes, a pale blue, were as hard as ice chips and her hands, long fingered, were clasped tightly in front of her.

"I thought you were dead." Her voice was completely emotionless, her eyes never staying even to glance at Taren. "Or languishing in someone's dungeon."

Taren was unsure from the coldness that hung about the woman if she wouldn't have preferred if Marco had ended up with one of those fates.

The dog abruptly stopped and Marco, looking very disheveled indeed, climbed to his feet. "Almost," he said evenly.

"Come inside," she said. "I suppose I know why you've come...you never knew when to leave things well enough alone."

"Wait," said Taren coolly. They both turned to gaze at him. "How do I know you can be trusted? Her?"

Marco glanced at the woman before meeting his gaze. "You can't. But if you allow me to explain at least a little perhaps you will."

Taren regarded them for a long moment. Jump in or wait? Trust or leave before this turned sideways? Dusk was beginning to fall and he had a tight deadline to work with. Allowing the glamour to fall so that his sword was visible, Taren stepped forward. "Just remember," he said to Marco, "I need information before dawn."

_And if I have to I will kill. I hope you know that, Marco. _

The kitchen was neatly kept, the furnishings simple and, Taren was quick to note, any windows facing the street were firmly closed and the door latched. He could make out a sort of dining room crossed parlour through an open door but that to was empty. A quick search with his mind revealed no other living presence that he could detect. He loosened the sword in its sheath and watched as Marco, one hand resting on the back of the large dog, settled in a chair close to the door. Taren, unwilling to sit, leaned against the wall as he observed the room before him. The entire place had a slightly unloved and abandoned feel to it.

"Why now? Why after all this time?" asked the woman as she busied herself with a kettle.

"I couldn't come back then," said Marco.

The woman glanced at him, her face unreadable. "I came back six months ago. I thought it would somehow make things better but…"

"It wasn't how I wanted it to happen," said Marco before she could continue. "If I could go back and change what happened to us — to our family — I would. But the only thing we can do is see this regime toppled. The Empire must fall."

Claire regarded him for a long moment. Her eyes were hard chips of ice. "I want vengeance, Taren."

"One day," said Taren. "One day we will both have our vengeance. But we cannot let that get in the way of the goal I know we both share: to see the crimes committed by the Empire answered for. Those crimes go beyond us."

Claire was silent for so long that Taren, who was growing increasingly uncomfortable, wondered if she would throw them out of the house then and there. At last, her shoulders tight with tension, she spoke. "I will help you as much as I can. You've always known that, little brother."

Ah, thought Taren, so this was a family thing. He could have guessed. Both Claire and Marco had a similar cast to their face and it explained the willingness to drop into a back garden so recklessly when, by all accounts, Marco was a very cautious spy. He had clearly gambled that a sister he could not have seen for months would be willing to join their little escapade. A risk, a big risk, but Zoe had said that Marco was not stupid.

"The Empire," said Claire suddenly, "is planning to barricade the largest gate with everything and anything they can. Already citizens have begun to add to the pile. Somehow - whether by dragon or magic - the Varden will need to clear that gate if they want full control of Dras'Leona."

"Noted," said Marco. The young man leaned forward, "What do you know of a secret way into the city. There is rumoured to be a tunnel…a tunnel underneath the city."

For the first time Claire's face took on a more amused expression. Something changed although Taren could not say what it was. The air seemed to sharpen and Taren felt his blood begin to pound as his body, so used to acclimatizing at a moment's notice for action, picked up on the change.

"Oh dear brother," she said with a mocking curl to her lips, "has it really taken you this long to figure that out? And here I thought you prided yourself on knowing secrets."

* * *

"Try again."

Murtagh clenched his jaw.

_Try again._

It was such a simple little statement. He didn't want to try again, instead he wanted to snarl in disgust and stalk off until his temper cooled along with the pounding headache. He wanted the grim satisfaction of a duel with Runon not this frustrating exercise in…

"You need to relax," said Oromis. "Until you relax and work with the magic you will fail in every attempt to channel it through the Ancient Language."

What do you think I've been doing?! Murtagh struggled to rein in his rapidly fraying emotions and the strong desire to tell Oromis that magic was for the birds. But it wasn't, he told himself sternly. If he wanted to have even the slightest chance in combat he had to master at least the fundamentals - if he wanted to get back to Zoe. If he was honest with his innermost feelings, which he so rarely was these days, it was only the thought of what Zoe would say that kept him from telling Thorn to buck it all and take them far away from Oromis, Glaedr, magic and war.

But Zoe wouldn't like that. Zoe would look at him with quiet disappointment in her grey eyes and he knew what her silence said: Do I matter - does your brother, Thorn and maybe Vivian though she is long dead - matter so little that a bit of work is enough to make you give up on everything we have done? She wouldn't say it, she would sigh and leave but that disappointment would cut deeper than any words, any anger ever could.

"Yes master," said Murtagh.

Oromis sighed, "Clear your mind, Murtagh. You are an experienced warrior; you have been trained well in the arts of meditation and magical theory. All that remains is for you to trust and reach for the magic."

Murtagh nodded and closed his eyes briefly. Tornac had taught him how to steady his breathing and empty his mind from a very early age. Trying to maintain the equilibrium in his mind, Murtagh reached for the magic that he had, after an exhaustive few days of meditation, finally discovered. A warm rush filled him. The magic rushing through the connection he created. Struggling against the instinctive reaction to move away, to let go of this rushing power, Murtagh murmured the incantation.

The stack of scrolls rose in the air and, with only a slight wobble, they deposited themselves on various shelves as directed by the spell. Murtagh released the magic with a faint sigh of relief.

"Very good," said Oromis with a rare nod of approval.

Murtagh only managed a nod. His magical education was not continuing as quickly or as well as either teacher or student had hoped it would. Every other area of study from meditation to magical to theory to history had required only faint touch ups and the occasional deepening of understanding. Murtagh was, as Oromis had acknowledged very early on, highly educated. Galbatorix had clearly had it in mind to groom the young man to be a Rider.

But magic continued to allude him. It was not a question of strength or mental discipline but a question of trust. Magic and Murtagh didn't seem to like each other one bit and where Eragon allowed himself to merge with the power, to feel its intricacies and work with it, Murtagh struggled. Thorn was no help either. The young dragon had tried to help him overcome this deeply ingrained fear or reluctance but the progress was slow - frustratingly slow for someone used to accomplishing things.

"Why is it," said Oromis after a pause, "that you dislike magic so much? Your difficulty in channeling spells is not because of a lack of physical or mental strength. You resist it."

"You have asked me that before," said Murtagh quietly.

The older Rider regarded him astutely for a long moment. "Until you are honest with yourself Murtagh we shall make little progress in this area of study." The silver haired elf rose from his chair and moved to one of the tear drop windows. "I recall watching Zoe rediscover her power during her time in Du Weldenvarden. It was for her like meeting an old friend. The day I first saw her cast a spell she did it with barely a pause, without thinking too hard about the task. She did it as easily as breathing. I never told her how remarkable her control over magic was even among a race so steeped in it as mine….Zoe told me of darkness, of betrayal and corruption. She told me of enchantments and madness."

Murtagh remained silent. He knew better then to interrupt.

"You fear magic," said Oromis, "because you have seen how it twists and corrupts those who use it only for power. It destroyed your mother. I think you blame magic for the deaths of two people you were very close to. It threatens to rip apart our world and all those that stretch beyond it." The elf turned and regarded him quietly, "I think until you make peace with magic we will not be able to progress past basic levitation and healing spells, Murtagh."

"How do I make peace with it?" Murtagh fought to keep his voice level.

"That is for you to find out," said the elf. "I do not want you to attempt any more magic until then."

Murtagh nodded tightly. Introspection had never been one of his strong suits.

_Murtagh?_ The rumbling voice of Thorn echoed through his mind.

_Thorn?_

_We are almost back._

At least, considered Murtagh as he assisted his elderly master with shelving the remaining scrolls, Thorn's training and progressed by such leaps and bounds that Glaedr had even commented on it. Thorn seemed to grow faster than was normal and he was turning into a large, thick set dragon. He would never be the natural flier that Saphira was but he would be a force to be reckoned with. Murtagh was glad for it. He was grateful that Glaedr and Oromis took such care to train Thorn despite the mounting pressure for them to be ready for combat. It couldn't have been farther from Murtagh's early education which had been delivered with dark promises of severe punishment for failing and endless disappointment for his lack of magical ability.

It was a relief, once Thorn and Glaedr had returned, to finally be able to leave the small clearing on the white cliffs.

_At least you are no longer scared of flying with me,_ hummed Thorn. _Glaedr was pleased with how much closer we have grown over the past weeks. _

_Yes,_ said Murtagh,_ at least there is that. Perhaps I will be able to overcome this…_

_Fear_, said the dragon as he spread his wings._ You must acknowledge that it is fear, Murtagh. Just as you acknowledged that you could not help grey-eyed-Zoe and brother-blue Rider-Eragon the night of the siege._

Murtagh bit back the instant denial that rose to the forefront of his thoughts. _You are growing wise, Thorn._

_Hush_, said the dragon and with that he leapt into the clear air. _I am a dragon and I am a part of you...I see things that you like to pretend you don't. _

Flying.

It was as though the two worlds had merged, the one he lived out loud and the one he lived with Thorn.

Perhaps, he thought, if he could find such joy in a world that had at first terrified him then maybe…maybe it was possible to discover why people like Zoe lived and breathed magic despite its potential to destroy the very foundations of their world. He had to.

Time was running out.

* * *

_**Long overdue but I hope this chapter proves that I still do care about this story and all of you lovely readers despite leaving it sitting for a couple of months.  
**_

_**Regardless - please enjoy! **_


	5. On the Edge

_**Author's Note: **_

_**I left this story sitting for a year not because I am not committed to finishing it but because I was going through a bit of a growth phase in my writing. I've been writing about Zoe for a long time now and I was a bit dissatisfied with her character and the story. It just didn't feel...well very interesting. Characters need to grow and change but mine seemed to be going through the motions of a story that seemed pretty two-dimensional. **_

_**Because I genuinely want to finish this story and I have a bit of a different direction for where I want it to go, I have elected not to go through and redo every single chapter right now of either Empire or Zoe. But that does mean this next chapter is going to be a switch from previous tone and style. I would like to think that this will somehow be 'better' but it might not be. In which case - flame away! I honestly don't care at this point. After so long writing Zoe I just want to enjoy writing this story and the chance to experiment. It is also a chance for me to share the joy I find in writing and reading with others. **_

**_Thank you for reading. I hope if nothing else that this story brings you - whoever you might be - some enjoyment. _**

* * *

_In the years since Taren had seen his cousin come of age, she had changed so completely as to be almost unrecognizable. The young girl who had stood uneasily at official ceremonies and seemed to spend more time with stained knees and ripped clothes was replaced by a leader, emanating an effortless, confident power only eclipsed by her elder brother, the Crown Prince. Faced with these two, one dark haired and the other golden, one was presented with an image that brooked no dissent. It was an image softened only slightly by the warm presence of Lucia with her gentle blue eyes and Eomund who, for all his battle prowess, had never lost his calm, soothing presence._

_But it was Zoe's eyes that paused Taren. The once open and carefree eyes that had sparkled with mirth had turned glacial. They were cold enough to make even experienced courtiers with years of experience falter. Those hard chips of ice booked no disagreement, allowed not even a flicker of true emotion to show._

_It wouldn't discourage him. He knew her. Somewhere, beneath this brittle veneer, there had to be the cousin he loved._

_She remained standing tall as he watched her. Her face had the unlined luminosity of youth, making it difficult to reconcile the last time he had seen her muddy and shouting orders at grim faced men with the young woman before him dressed in a gown of the finest silk. But it was there in her eyes and in the abrupt, smooth strength of her movements, an edge that unsettled him._

_Why had she come back when it was clear she didn't want to be at all? Here she was so clearly caged, stifled by the protocols and entitlements…_

* * *

Taren followed his two guides through the deserted streets of Dras'Leona with some trepidation. They hid in allies or pressed themselves into doorways when soldiers passed by, moving all-time closer to the massive cathedral in the center of the city. Space was tight, houses and other buildings packed closely together, no effort made to organize the streets. But they were clearly moving from poor to more affluent districts. The closer they got to the central keep and Cathedral the bigger and more elaborate the houses became and the streets were cleaner.

The city was deathly quiet. So unnaturally quiet and still that it almost felt abandoned. Windows had been tightly barred and doors boarded up. Refugees had crowded into narrow alleyways, empty houses, and taverns, every inch of even slightly defensible space packed. The three of them moved through this, heads down and eyes averted. Taren kept his cloaked wrapped tightly around him, concealing his distinctive sword.

Taren wasn't entirely sure this was wise but he was too far in to say no now. Besides, as Marco had pointed out, they had less than half an hour before curfew and very little time to contact Zoe. The sun was rapidly sinking towards the horizon. They had left Claire's house with a hastily drawn map and Claire's instance over Marco's objections that she had to accompany them at least part of the way. It was all rather hazy at best, the directions and information coming from second and third-hand sources but Claire seemed to know what she doing.

There were too many games in play, he thought sourly; too many balls in the air. He did not enjoy it when the balls he juggled were lives; that the game was being played for the sake of destiny and fate.

"Here," hissed Claire as she pulled them into a narrow gap between what appeared to be an upscale merchant shop and a miniature version of the giant cathedral complete with ornate spires and coloured glass. There was a door into the church which Claire, after a moment's fiddling with something she pulled out of a sleeve, managed to open. "Inside," she said quietly, "there is a way to the Cathedral through here."

The place was empty. Light filtered in through skylights and it illuminated an opulent space dedicated to a gruesome religion. The floor was highly polished stone and the panels set into the vaulted ceiling were so carved and ornate it was difficult to tell what, besides ostentatious wealth, they intended to convey. There were no pews. Taren turned his gaze away feeling slightly sick as he saw the marble altar at the far end of the room that was illuminated by a slanting bar of afternoon sun. Following Claire who moved quietly along the outside wall, Taren kept his mind open, searching - always - for some sign of pursuit.

Something wasn't right, the place was deserted but there was a feeling. Something flickered just outside his awareness and it made him uneasy. It did not make him stop, however. He was used to this feeling, knew that sense of events tumbling out of control just beyond his awareness and control. He just had to wait a little longer to determine what exactly was wrong…was coming.

Claire led them to the back of the large room. There was a door, heavy and barred with an ornate but totally useless lock that Claire seemed to have no problem picking. Her skill set, her knowledge of the inner workings of this city and the way she so easily navigated it made Taren wonder. Marco and Claire's uncertain past was becoming a bit clearer.

"Follow me," said Claire gesturing at the dark set of stairs that descended steeply. "Keep quiet. This leads to the cellars."

They followed her down the wide steps. It was a wide cellar, completely empty with smooth flagstones and walls. But there were darker signs on the walls - a pair of cuffs had been set deeply in one wall. The same rising nausea and disgust Taren had felt at the sight of the altar came back twofold. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"The churches are connected to main Cathedral," said Claire as she grabbed a lantern set high on the wall and lit it with a match she pulled out of a pocket in her dress. "It allows the Brethren to move between each one without having to use the streets." She led them forward, "I know only a few of these passageways but it shouldn't be too difficult to find the Cathedral this way." Kneeling on the stone floor, Claire searched with her hands until she found whatever she was looking for and pulled at the flagstone. It came away and revealed a set of steep steps that led down into pitch black emptiness.

Without hesitating the small group descended into the tunnel with Claire leading them, holding the lantern in one hand. The light did little to illuminate the deep darkness, it seemed, instead, to just throw more shadows. At the bottom of the stairs, Taren found himself in a very narrow tunnel with rough, dry walls. The air was stale. Claire was already moving forward, however, and so he followed her down the narrow passageway.

After a few minutes silent walking, he could resist no longer. "So," said Taren, "how long have you been a free man?"

Marco's steps stuttered for the briefest of instants. Ahead of them, walking quickly, Claire glanced back but her face was unreadable in the dim light. "What makes you think that?"

Taren remained silent.

Finally, his words devoid of any emotion, Marco said, "A little over a year now. I was… a slave for three years before that."

"I hope," said Taren quietly, "you gave them hell."

Marco let out a quiet snort, "I have."

They were silent after that, Claire leading them with swift sureness through the tunnels that linked the city together. The stone tunnels opened occasionally into chambers but, for the most part, they ran straight and direct. Claire seemed to know where she was going, never hesitating when they came to a fork or a set of stairs. There was, noted Taren, the occasional mark or set of runes but, otherwise, the tunnels were bare, rough stone.

Until, suddenly, Claire stopped, the lantern swinging in her hand. They were standing in the entranceway that led into a much wider tunnel with a vaulted ceiling that had been covered in intricate black lines that seemed, to Taren, to be attempting to tell some sort of narrative. After so long in the claustrophobic darkness, this space felt positively cavernous although it wasn't much bigger. He could make out two other tunnel entrances that merged into this one through the gloom. Wide, supporting columns had been sculpted from the dry, cream-colored stone. Wall scones had been set at eye level but not all of them had been lit and the few that had been sent more shadows than light dancing across the walls.

Before either he or Marco could ask Claire why she had stopped, Taren heard the faint sound of robes swishing and the faint shuffle of footsteps. They had to move or risk being seen but Claire, after being so sure and confident, seemed unable to move, her hand gripping the lantern so tightly that she almost didn't let go when Taren tried to take it from her and douse the light.

"Here," hissed Taren, gripping Claire's wrist and pulling her behind one of the columns. There was a small space, just wide enough for the two of them if they pressed into the stone hard. Marco moved down the corridor slightly, away from their small hiding space, his footsteps weren't rushed and he seemed unconcerned.

"Who trespasses in the sacred halls?" came a thin but demanding voice. Taren could just make out a dim lantern swinging into view before the column blocked his view.

"I am nothing," said Marco tonelessly. "I am the hand in the dark, the tool waiting to be used. I am nameless. I am _nothing_."

"Prove it."

Marco must have shown the golden medallion embossed with the seal of Galbatorix to the priest that Zoe had retrieved. The round disk of gold appeared harmless but, reflected Taren, it wasn't. He could sense the magic woven into the disk, the way the web of magic had been anchored and reinforced in a myriad of complex ways. It was subtle but elegant and, while he could not use magic, he could sense it, connect with it enough to appreciate its intricacies.

"Why are you here?"

Hidden behind the carved column and pressed into the small notch in the wall with Claire, Taren waited with baited breath. He could feel Claire's heart beating very fast, it sounded unnaturally loud in the cramped space. He hoped Marco was as good as Zoe thought. This would take some finesse.

"You dare question me?" snapped Marco.

It was a wonderful impression, thought Taren, of his hideous old great Aunt.

"We do not allow non-believers…"

"Do you want to tell that to the King?" said Marco in a voice that echoed sharply through the hall. "I have been charged with securing all passage ways and entrances into and out of this city by the highest of authorities. You know as well as I that you are meant not only to assist me but inform me of everything that may or may not impact the success of our campaign. The King has been very…supportive of you and your brethren."

The threat wasn't very subtle but it was effective it seemed. The priest was silent for a long moment, "The passage you are looking for is behind the hatchery. The tunnel ahead to your right and four more rights after that. It has been blocked for centuries. We have prepared the defenses as the King requested."

Hatchery? Defences? Taren felt his heart thrum with warning. This was what Zoe was worried about.

But Marco refused to show any ignorance, "Please convey my thanks to your fellow brothers. The King appreciates your loyalty."

"Will you require assistance?" asked the man in a grudging tone.

"No," said Marco, "and I ask for your discretion in this matter."

"I shall inform my Brethren of your presence," said the man before departing.

With a swish of robes the priest left, Taren could just make out his retreating form. Focusing hard, drawing on what little power he had, Taren reached out. He was not good enough to do much more than direct the priest's thoughts, a subtle nudge in the right direction. Hopefully, that little nudge, cementing Marco as an operative of the Black Hand and the command to never interfere or directly hinder the operations of the Black Hand would buy them some time.

"Come," said Taren, guiding Claire out from behind the column and back into the bare passageway.

"You should go," said Marco to her.

She nodded, "Be careful, Marco." With a whisper of her thin cloak, Claire was gone back the way they had come. She did not bother with a lantern but Taren had a feeling she didn't need one.

"She must have been very good," said Taren with a quick sideways look at Marco.

"She is," corrected Marco quietly without any sign of emotion, "but I don't want her involved. She has done enough as it is. And there are those in this city who would like to have her back."

The two moved forward, Taren following Marco down the passageway with its well-spaced wall scones until they came to a passageway that branched out to their right. Marco hesitated for a moment before walking into the deep shadows. Grabbing one of the hanging scones, Taren followed him.

"Stronghammer…" said Marco after a moment's silence, "is he still in Aroughs? I was gathering intelligence there before I was called back. It was a miserable place."

"He returned earlier today…I think the siege was successful but difficult," murmured Taren in reply. "It sounded as if Roran was his usual unpredictable self."

"You disapprove?"

"No," said Taren, "but I worry that he will overstep the bounds."

Marco glanced back, "So…he is a friend of yours?"

"Friends are an unaffordable luxury," he replied impassively; not an answer at all. "What is far more interesting is watching Rider Eragon."

After a few more minutes of silence, Marco asked, "What is her name…Liana's name?"

Taren paused for a fraction of a second before continuing to walk, "You will have to ask her that. But it is unusual….it caused quite a stir when her parents announced it. Broke quite a few traditions."

They were silent after that, Marco leading the way. It was hard to keep the passageways straight and the tunnels had a deeply disconcerting way about them. As they navigated their way, however, Taren became increasingly uneasy for another, much more chilling reason. The markings on the walls had increased and there was a distinct air of power, an undercurrent of energy. He felt watched, felt as if each footstep was being overheard and marked.

Finally, they came to tunnels where the black marks were so dense that lines were overlapping in incoherent patterns of black lines. It was in one of these tunnels, just as they were about to emerge into an open but low room where two other tunnels branched off, that Taren sensed a presence…no more than one and approaching fast. Gripping Marco's arm, he pulled the young man back into the shadows and waited, eyes focused on the other entrances.

There was nowhere to hide.

A group of ten or so armed men emerged from one, led by one of the priests who was murmuring what sounded like a spell. A moment later another group of priests emerged from the other tunnel.

"It is done," said one of the priests with a dip of his hooded head. "The trap has been set."

"And the hatching…" inquired one of the other priests, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

"All we need is the Rider," said the first.

A chilling statement that made Taren deeply uneasy. The two groups merged then, the black-clothed men whose faces were hidden by heavy cowls, taking up positions behind the priests and retreating back down one of the tunnels.

"A trap?" hissed Marco.

"I wonder…" Taren looked at the thick black lines that traced across the walls and ceilings. "Some magic is subtle," he whispered, "and this is a subtle darkness. I think the Priests know the Varden were thinking of using these tunnels and they activated something. Come on."

He moved more confidently now, able to sense the power now that he had identified it. Not for the last time he cursed his limited abilities, this would be so much easier if he was more sensitive to these forces. Choosing the tunnel that the second group of priests had emerged from, he led Marco down it for a few feet before stopping.

The short tunnel had opened into a dark, heavily built but small chamber with a huge circular pattern of inlaid stone - marble and chalcedony and polished hematite - in the center. Around the edge of the patterned disk stood rough, fist-sized chunks of amethyst set within silver collars. Each glowed with a dull light although it seemed to be getting brighter. Across the disk, against the far wall, was a large black altar. Pillars and candelabra flanked the altar, with a closed door on each side.

A trap, thought the warrior with cool detachment. He could feel it, sense the thrumming power and the hatred and anger…it had been fixed here, woven into a dense net of despair.

"What is this?" hissed Marco. The young man was deadly pale, his eyes wide with fear.

"A trap," said Taren. "I think they intended to lead whoever breached the tunnels into this place and trap them in the circle." He moved forward cautiously, his eyes tracing the patterns of runes that linked together around the glowing crystals. He was searching for the pattern, for the place where a small disturbance would cause the greatest effect.

How did he do it again? He recalled the lessons more clearly now: it was like holding a stone in one's fingers and throwing it into flowing water. The effect might not be easy to see. There would be a small ripple where the stone breaks the surface and then a splash, muffled by the rush of the surrounding river.

He could not rely on force or power but his distinctly rusty skill set.

He saw it then, a faint shift in the lines - a chink that could be exploited. Taking out a knife, Taren ran the blade along one of the runes, feeling the hum of power reverberating through the blade. But it had been crafted by his people, so far away in Prydain and he trusted it. With a swift, sharp movement he cut a thin line through the rune and kept the pressure so that the knife slid all the way to edge of one of the crystals and, with a final burst of willpower, Taren sliced through one of the silver bands that kept the crystal upright snapped.

He felt as if a great pressure had been lifted from his mind. A deep relief as the faintly growing crystal lights flickered and dimmed.

Marco helped him up, he was shaking slightly from the effort, his fingers so tightly clutched around the knife that the hilt was cutting into his skin. He closed his eyes, a dull headache making him wince. The act had taken a great deal of his strength, he felt light headed and off balance.

"We need to go," said Marco, the man tightened his grip around Taren's arm, holding him steady. "They will have sensed something…"

"Yes," said Taren and he took a deep breath. He had to breathe, had to center himself once more.

But a faint sound from the passageway behind them made both men turn sharply. A man - a boy really - was standing there with an expression of surprise. He was wearing what appeared to be a novice priests robes. He opened his mouth, no doubt to shout the alarm but he never got the chance. In a swift movement, so fast that neither the young novice or Marco had no time to react, Taren's knife flew in a deadly arc.

"Did you have to kill him?" said Marco in a faintly strained voice as he moved forward, Taren following more slowly behind him. The spy yanked Taren's blade out of the now very dead novice and passed it back to the son of Llyr.

"It was necessary," said Taren in an unemotional voice. "He would have alerted anyone near of our presence and I am in no condition to fight against multiple opponents who may or may not be magicians." Cleaning the blade off on the novice's pale robes, Taren gestured at the body, "Put it behind one of the columns."

They made the rest of the journey in silence. Turning, occasionally pausing before moving on again until they came to one tunnel that had not be covered in runes and dark lines. It ran straight and true, far narrower and smaller than the others.

"This is the one," said Marco. "It doesn't look blocked." The spy pointed at the floor where faint footprints were visible in the dust.

"Let us hope we have not been discovered," said Taren and the two men dived into the deep blackness of this new tunnel. Both hoped, desperately, that they were not too late.

* * *

She hadn't been in her tent very long before she was summoned back to Nasauda's command pavilion.

Zoe stood very still on the edge of the circle of advisors. She was bored and irritated, the arguments as tireless and familiar as the last set had been - as the arguments of the last three days had been. They were trapped round and round, unable to move forward until Marco and Taren contacted her but everyone seemed to have forgotten that and moved onto more immediate, solvable problems. Her gaze fell on Nasuada, arguing heatedly with Orrin.

So that is a leader here, she thought quietly, not for the first or the last time. Nausada was battle proven and was a canny woman, adept and clearsighted.

She wouldn't have lasted ten minutes, a voice whispered.

In the time since Taren had come to Alagaesia it had become almost painfully clear how deep the divide was between Zoe and the friends she had made in this world. It had grown steadily wider without her being aware as she shed her false life and took up her old one. She was used to being around power, around people working all the time to reinforce their position by any means possible. It was hard to step free of it, to leave behind intentions coated in poison, intrigue, contrivance and artifice.

Did it matter? She couldn't help but think that it did. Unraveling who she was, reclaiming and reforging her identity after she had been so brutally unmade was important. She felt older, far older than her apparently youthful countenance let on. Which begged the question: exactly how old was she? On Earth she had been close to eighteen, a few months shy of being able to everything but legally get drunk. But in Prydain? She must have been older, much older although, she reflected, perhaps age was different there. Perhaps she was closer to twenty-five but in a much younger looking body.

Why, she also considered as her minded wander further, had she and her siblings retained their mother's name to? These details of her life seemed to be the last things to come back. Shouldn't she just be Princess of Angard and not lay any claim to Llyr or had her mother insisted? It was an old House, she recalled, even older than Angard and its origins were shrouded in mystery. Like the gray mists that came in off the ocean during winter, the true history of the House of Llyr had remained shrouded behind dozens of mistruths and stories. A House of quiet resilience.

Pay attention, snapped a voice in her head.

But it was hard. It was hard to listen to these people and not laugh out loud with a mix of bitterness and twisted amusement. Hard to put aside other meetings, other arguments and not think that while that had been dangerous this…this is so much more serious and yet no one here has any idea at all and they were bickering like children.

Should she tell them? Should she expand Nasuada's knowledge from shady and vague to more clearcut? She had warned Taren against saying anything more than he had to - anything more than Nasuada already knew from Brom.

Too dangerous, she reflected. You are already too involved.

And she was.

On too many levels and in ways that made her incredibly vulnerable. Taren, as usual, had every right to be angry with her.

Stepping back until she was right up against the wall of the tent, Zoe waited and then seized her chance, ducking out when everyone's gaze, including Saphira's, was focused on the rapidly disintegrating argument between Nasauda and Orrin. She was breaking protocol but being spymaster gave her some leeway.

Although, she thought darkly, Orrin was sure to bring it up when he found himself on the losing side of another argument.

The sun was warm on her face. The tents that stretched out around her, radiating out in tightly packed lines looked less bleak in the warm light. She was surrounded by so many minds, the mental whispers a constant background noise that she could willingly tune in and out of.

She walked away, moving towards the open training ground where, even now, men were moving in orderly clumps as commanders tried to distract their men without wearing them out. She paused on the edge of the training ground, aware but not caring about the men that glanced at her and the faint whispers. They weren't dangerous whispers. That she had developed a reputation was not surprising and unavoidable but she had done her best to direct it in a very specific way. She had been careful to uphold these men's opinions and, however correct or incorrect their perception of her was, it seemed she had succeeded somewhat.

Sitting down in the shade of a tent, Zoe watched the practice field. She was conveniently concealed from most people by a pile of wood and other oddments. Leaning her head back against a tent post she considered the matters before her. The last time round this mission had not gone according to plan. She didn't want one of Eragon's spell casters to die for a myriad of reasons. Any death that could be avoided she would, but an elven life was particularly important given the still strained relations between the Varden and the elven Queen.

If only, she thought, things weren't so hazy. They hadn't been before. Before everything had been crystal clear but now, after so long valiantly trying to keep things on course, she couldn't remember!

And what was Galbatorix's great plan? What terror did he intend to unleash on them this time?

She did not like waiting to find out what it was just as she disliked trying to remember the intricacies of the final chapters of those distant books. A Raz'zac? A dragon and Rider created out of the memories of dead dragons and held aloft by their will and magic? The King liked to lure them in and then spring something on them when they had all their forces in a convenient location.

Moreover, she mused, why had that dragon of thought and mind picked her up off the battlefield? The question had been bothering her for a long time. Had the dragons that created it sensed something about her? Or was it simply that she had been a convenient figure to pick up and then dash against the ground…

"Miss," came a very young voice from her left.

She turned to see the boy from Carvahall, he was dressed in a slightly too big page uniform. The impression was not professional but endearing. "Yes?"

The boy floundered, his eyes dropping to the ground. She noticed he was holding a wooden practice sword, the mock weapon looking like an innocent toy but it was, she thought darkly, the beginning of something far less innocent. She spared him further embarrassment by saying conversationally, "Have you had any lessons with that?"

"No," said the boy with a flush of color, "I just got it today…"

She needed a distraction. Anything to break up this interminable wait…

"Come," said Zoe with a wave of her hand, "I will show you the first drill all swordsmen learn." So she showed him, recalling how she herself was taught so long ago. "There," she said once he had mastered the movements and all that remained was endless practice until the swings and block became automatic and smooth, "you have it. Keep practicing until it becomes natural, like breathing."

"Thank you miss," said the boy. He was positively glowing with pride, his face illuminated with it.

She wanted to say something about courage and remembering that sometimes it was braver to save a life but all she managed was, "Always keep the blade between you and your opponent. Don't forget that."

After all she had done and seen it seemed wrong to impart moral truths about fighting and courage. Her ruthlessness and her one track determination had meant that when and why she fought was often for the right cause but the wrong reasons. How could she now lecture a child about truths she had long since left behind?

The boy nodded earnestly, "I will. How long have you been fighting, miss?"

How long had it been? Long enough, she reflected.

_Her mother was waiting for her._

_"Why do you want to take up a sword?"_

_A very young Zoe was careful, her eyes staying low and her voice quiet. "It is the right thing to do."_

_Her mother was furious but in a contained, dangerously quiet way. "You have the capacity to step beyond the mundane, the ability to connect with something greater. Something exceptional. And now you shun it for a sword? All that training and practice and diligence turned to banging a blade around."_

_Zoe turned her head, knowing she had to face her mother but unable to do so. "I am not just an enchantress or a princess. I must learn this."_

_Her mother let out a long sigh of air, seeming to have run out of any patience. "You can deny it all you want," she said coldly, "but it is in you. They will never accept you as a warrior. One day you will see that."_

"I was very young," she said, trying to dismiss the memory with a small shake of her head. "But you should run along," she forced a smile on to her face. "You have duties. We all must play our part"

He nodded and vanished, clutching his wooden sword. The men moved around her, the wind rustling the flags. It was hot, she thought, almost stifling. She paused as, so suddenly she had no warning at all, she felt the touch of another's mind - a familiar and much-anticipated contact that somehow reached her despite the distance that separated them.

_Zoe?_

_Taren._

_We found it,_ said her cousin._ But the entrance is under the Cathedral and the Priests of Helgrind are suspicious enough. We must move fast._

A flicker of thought was all it took to determine her cousin's location and what he wanted her to do. _I will be there directly, she said. I remembered something…the Priests of Helgrind have control of a number of Laughing Dead_, she said quickly. _Tell Marco._

_Right_, said Taren_, but there is more Zoe - something else. They are hiding something._

She felt a cold coil of dread grow within her_. Be careful_, she said,_ stay hidden. The gates?_

_Blocked and barricaded_, said Taren grimly before he broke the connection.

Mercifully Orrin was not at the command pavilion when Zoe arrived. But Brom was there along with Nasuada, Arya, Orik, Angela, Solembum, Eragon and Saphira. They all turned when she entered, eyes focusing on her, sensing the kinetic energy that hung about her.

"Marco and Taren have succeeded," said Zoe. "I propose taking a small strike force into the tunnel." She hoped that her forthrightness would force them all to act and clarify the actions they needed to take. It nearly worked.

"I will go," said Eragon. The words had an immediate, chilling effect.

Arya looked ready to protest but Brom gripped her arm tightly. Zoe saw him shake his head ever so slightly. Saphira watched, the dragon's great eyes never leaving her Rider's straight, very still form.

"I forbid it," said Nasuada, "you are far too important to go."

"I will," said Eragon with all the certainty in the world.

"Either come or stay," said Zoe sharply, "but we can delay no longer." She glanced at the Herbalist who seemed to have a knack of sitting in the back of the Pavilion with her knitting whenever she was needed. Like this time. "Coming, Angela? Solembum?"

"Of course," said the Herbalist rising, "wouldn't dream of missing this. I am quite willing to round out this little adventure." The werecat lifted his head and yawned wide.

What a relief, thought Zoe with a barely concealed sigh. The Herbalist for all her strange ways was a part of this escapade and Zoe felt infinitely better to have her around.

"You will not go," repeated Nasuada to Eragon.

But Zoe saw the way this would end, knew that Nasuada was fighting a losing battle. Hadn't she agreed to this plan in the narrative? But this was different, this time there was an unfinished argument simmering between commander and Rider. Zoe wasn't surprised at this turn of events. She had seen Eragon begin to stretch his wings these past few days, begin to remind the Varden that he owed no oath of allegiance to anyone there but whatever he chose to give. If any could claim it at all it was a golden dragon and his Rider in Du Weldenvarden. Something had changed in him since the Battle of the Burning Plains and his venture to kill the Ra'zac. Roran's departure seemed to have been the final tipping point.

Here was the Rider.

In the midst of a civil war, with enemies all around and few choices left beneath the immediate demands of simply reacting moment to moment…it had finally all come to a head. Eragon had shed whatever was left of the young man still willing to be guided and trained and reprimanded. Every inch of a focus and intellect now turned to his advantage. There was a touch of dragon there, a feral light to those once soft eyes.

This was a battle of wills Zoe did not have time for, however. She did not have time for Arya to argue or Brom to disagree. Take control, came a voice in her mind, and direct them.

Which was how under an hour later she found herself standing in the dark wearing her familiar gear and a few light pieces of armor covered by a black cloak. Her companions - Angela, Solembum, Arya, Eragon and the elf Wyrden - had outfitted themselves similarly. Eragon's gear differed only in the cloth belt that his sword was attached to - the priceless belt of Beloth the Wise. Solembum was in cat form, his sleek figure pressed close to the ground as he watched them with glittering eyes.

Zoe had nearly said something when she saw Wyrden. Had nearly asked if there was another spell caster who would be willing to accompany them but she checked herself. She didn't know what would happen that night and doubting the choice would only be distracting for everyone involved.

Nasuada, Brom, Jormundur, and Saphira had accompanied them to the edge of the camp, where they now stood. Among the tents, the men of the Varden, dwarves, and Urgals were busy preparing to march forth. Eragon and Saphira exchanged parting words, the dragon seemed perfectly alright with the prospect of being separated from her Rider. Perhaps she too had sensed the sudden change in him, this sudden edge that seemed to have been sharpened by these past days of inactivity.

Besides, thought Zoe, Saphira would be fighting that night. The dragon had that feral light in her eyes, there was a subtle twitch to the dragon's tail that did not bode well for any unfortunate Empire soldier or priest of Helgrind.

The plan had its flaws but it was as solid as it could be with all the gaping uncertainties that, no matter how hard Zoe wracked her memory, remained stubbornly hazy.

"Come," said Zoe, "the night grows old. We don't have much time."

They moved out across the open land and into the grey darkness, their forms lost against the shapeless darkness. The only light came from a glowing crystal in Angela's hand and it was little more than a faint occasional rain drop splattered against her cloak. Why, she thought darkly, were so many battles fought in the rain?

Finally, after some time, the group stopped. They were in a shallow wash hidden within the folds of the land.

"Now what?" asked Arya.

Zoe stopped, standing very still as she searched, tracking down the various threads and connections until she found the right one. It had been guiding her all along but this time she strengthened it, reaching out with a feather light touch: _Taren?_

_Here. A little ahead and to the left of where you are standing._

"We are here," said Zoe confidently to her companions.

She moved forward, following her instinct and her connection to her cousin. On the side of the shallow dip there was a thick bush but Zoe pushed past it, her hands searching and, after a moment, her fingers closed around an iron ring half covered by dirt and debris. Pulling hard, she drew aside the rusting iron grate which covered a gaping hole. Behind her, Angela lifted her glowing crystal to illuminate a stone-lined tunnel five feet tall and four feet wide. A path led down into the tunnel, the trail worn into place by the passage of many feet.

A flicker of unease made Zoe unconsciously grip the hilt of her sword.

"There you are," said Taren as he appeared in the tunnel. Behind him, his face very pale in the herbalist's werelight, was Marco. The spy was holding a flickering torch in one hand and Zoe noted that his raised hand bore faint flecks of blood.

She moved to enter the tunnel, resting a hand on her cousin's arm she asked, "Has there been any trouble?" She glanced quickly at Marco who was looking directly at Taren.

"A little," said Taren, "but I think we have it managed…for now."

She sent him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing fractionally. "We need to speak," she said quietly.

Her cousin nodded and the small group moved down the narrow tunnel a few feet, the narrow space incredibly cramped and a bit claustrophobic. The two elves conjured werelights, the lights casting flickering shadows on the dry stone walls.

"How many men are in the city?" asked Zoe.

"Enough," said Marco as he explained what he had seen and where they were stationed. "The city is full of refugees," he finished. He paused again and said, "Are there any other agents in Dras-Leona? Anyone who can help us to the gates?"

Zoe paused, reflecting about whether or not she should inform the man who was effectively her second in command. Yes, she decided, although she now regretted not having told him before.

"Yes," she said, "the werecats." Zoe glanced at Solembum, "I expect they have also been gathering intelligence although I have not received a recent report." The werecat gave a quiet hiss.

Marco looked uneasy but nodded. "Lord Taren and I discovered…"

"Dark magic," spat Taren, "these tunnels and chambers are full of runes, cousin. There are men here, priests of this religion and others whose minds are twisted.…"

"Are they armed?"

"Yes," said Taren grimly. "But Marco was able to buy himself passage through the tunnels with the medallion. They fear the King - for now. We will have to be careful to navigate our way back, however. They have set traps."

She remembered more now, the details emerging out of the fog. Black-garbed warriors hidden the corridors and passage ways along with amethyst spikes created with magic and designed to overwhelm a spell caster's wards. Eragon and Arya had been overwhelmed down here and only through Angela and Solembum's ingenuity been freed. Wyrden had had an even more grisly fate.

It took every ounce of training not to curse. But the lessons had been drilled in for years and it was easier to simply fall back on them, to act without feeling any of the rising fear and worry that threatened to cloud her judgment.

"Very well," she said, "but you said you had it managed…"

A small, very dangerous smile flickered across Taren's face. "I may have...well damaged a few crystals and runes. I may not be as gifted as you but even I can see the patterns…and disrupt them."

"Then we have to be doubly careful," said Zoe. Her cousin's actions wouldn't have gone unnoticed.

"Indeed," said Angela from the back of the group. "This is a rather valuable group…"

"Hush," said Arya whose face had a tight, drawn look to it. "Are we ready to move forward?"

"This way," said Marco. He didn't bother to relight the torch.

They walked for what might have been an hour or ten minutes. Until, after the first branch in the tunnel, Zoe felt a deep, bone-chilling warning ripple through her. She grabbed Marco's arm, forcing the man to halt…

* * *

_"Murtagh," said the golden-haired woman with a considering look, "so I finally get to meet you. My brother spoke of you. You should be glad he isn't here."_

_"My lady," said Murtagh, trying to remember his manners in front of one of the most stunning and graceful women he had ever met. Everything about this golden-haired woman was flawless from the rich gold of her hair to her crystal blue eyes to the pale green dress that hung in weightless folds around her. Here, on this wide marble balcony, its pale honey hue reflecting the midday sunlight, Murtagh felt dizzy and overwhelmed and it wasn't from the breathtaking vista of city and countryside._

_"Lucia," she said with a smile so gentle and warm that it made Murtagh feel as if someone had just drenched him in warm sunlight. "Call me that, Murtagh."_

_But, of course, this was Zoe's younger sister. And this place…this stately palace was where Zoe belonged although he struggled to imagine her there. He had been here before but Pethred's private study had been a simple, utilitarian room with simple, elegantly proportioned furniture. This marble terrace and the palace below was anything but that._

_"Do you know, Murtagh, that all I have heard from my elder sister is a few words written in a book and a whisper of her magic. It isn't much, you know." She spoke lightly, her words precise and measured but there was weight to them, a deep current of emotion contained and measured._

_"I…" but he didn't know what to say._

_"And you are the complication," said Lucia as if he had not spoken, moving forward with quiet grace so that she stood directly in front of him. "Eomund spoke of this and even Pethred thought…but I see it now."_

_"What?" he asked, deeply confused and suddenly wary._

_Lucia shook her head, "What are you going to do, Murtagh?"_

_"I don't understand," he said, "what…"_

_"Be careful," said Lucia as if he had not attempted to respond, "with my sister." She lifted one weightless hand to a sparkling sapphire pendant at her throat, considering him with careful eyes. "I think you are running out of time, Murtagh."_

_"I have so much to do," he said quietly, the words coming freely and without thought. She inspired trust for some strange reason somewhere inside of him._

_"But you think yourself unequal to the task?"_

_"I cannot master magic," he said with a defeated sigh. "Each day I loose a little more time, each day I am reminded that I cannot and that…that if I can't then I am useless as a Rider. I cannot protect those I love."_

_Lucia was silent for a long moment, "Zoe walked away from her magic. We are all sensitive in our family to forces, can sense and, if we really try, we can connect briefly. But Zoe…my sister can do so much more. She can connect with forces, they can act through her."_

_"I've seen it," said Murtagh, "it was beautiful and natural. She was always in control…but her way of using magic is not like the way I am trying to learn."_

_Lucia laughed very softly, her gleaming hair sparkling in the sun, "My sister only resorts to magic because it is necessary to conceal herself or if she is under pressure…or by reflex. It frightened her and it still does. The forces are so much a part of her that she fears losing herself to them, becoming so deeply embedded in them that she would lose any semblance of reality." Lucia's crystalline eyes studying him._

_"She never spoke of that," said Murtagh. But then, he thought, there was much she had never spoken of. For so much of the time he had known her Zoe hadn't had much to tell._

_"No," said Lucia sadly, "she wouldn't have. It is an intricate dance, a balance that she maintains through force of will and skill. When you see my sister again, Murtagh, ask her to show you."_

_"If she has not shared…"_

_Lucia focused on him, her attention sharpened to an intensity he had only seen in her elder sister. "I think you have things confused, Murtagh. Let me tell you something about magic: it is neither good nor evil. It is neither wrong or right. It simply exists. It is how we choose to use it - our intent - which defines it and us."_

_She turned away and the world began to dissolve around him. "Tell my sister I miss her," said Lucia but Murtagh could not reply. He was waking and the palace was fading away, his last image that of Lucia's golden hair glimmering in the sunlight._

He woke in his tree house in Du Weldenvarden. Thorn's wing formed a warm red tent above him and the dragon's heartbeat thrummed steadily beside him.

_You have odd dreams_, said the dragon.

_You saw, Thorn?_

_I am your dragon_, said Thorn with a trace of amusement. _I liked her._

_Is it dawn?_

_Not yet_, said the dragon.

_You must be tired_, said Murtagh. _Gleadr and you were out for a long time yesterday. He was proud of how you did. _

The dragon hummed,_ You are still tired, little one. You have been sparring with Runon._

It was true. Every day Murtagh had gone and sparred with the smith. Every day, without fail, he was defeated but it was taking the smith longer and he was beginning to regain the edge that his fighting had always had._ I am learning Zar'roc_, he said. _It is very different from the one I used before._

And it was different from the utilitarian blade that he had claimed for his own as a young warrior, purposefully ignoring the many other options offered by the King. He had refused the blades of long dead Riders, elven warriors and kings of men. Zar'roc, however, was in a class of its own. It was a blade meant to take and press home an advantage. It was deadly and forceful - unpredictable and utterly unforgiving. He had tasted its bite once and carried a bitter reminder that the sword was always hungry for the fury of war. A sword meant for conquering.

_You will shape a new fate for it_, said Thorn._ It is only right that your blade match my scales._

_I wish I had your faith_, said Murtagh quietly. _Perhaps I will but you can't change the nature of a sword. _

Thorn said nothing. The young dragon, only a few months old, had a quiet wisdom to him. The pair of them so deeply connected in mind and soil that neither needed words. Oromis had commented on their connection a few days before, stating that he was impressed by how quickly it had progressed. The elder Rider had attributed it to Murtagh's already highly developed mental awareness but the ruby Rider half wondered if it had more to do with Thorn. The ruby dragon refused to be excluded from Murtagh's thoughts, had nosed his way in, and now Murtagh wondered how he had ever lived without this constant companionship.

_When will we leave?_

The question surprised Murtagh, I don't know. _When we are sent for, I suppose._

_We can leave,_ said the dragon.

Murtagh started slightly. He had often wondered the same thing, especially since Feinster and even more so now that Thorn was old enough to carry him and fly longer distances. But it went against every lesson, every drilled in commandment. He had had a military education, been educated in a rigid, formalized structure in which one simply did not choose to leave. One did not simply act because of an emotional desire to be somewhere else...or with someone else.

_That would not be right,_ said Murtgah, knowing he had to convey this to his companion of heart and mind. _You are still young, Thorn. And I have much to learn about magic and the ways of the Riders. They will never trust in positions of authority and influence if we do not prove ourselves here. _

_If we need to_, said the dragon,_ I will take you all the way to Uru'baen. I would do so now._

It sent a warm wave of love and appreciation through Murtagh to hear that. _I hope it doesn't come to that_, he said._ But, for now, I need to finish a reading…I promised Oromis but I have one scroll left…_

He could not help but smile as Thorn grumbled and he slid out from underneath the red wing. Who would have thought that he, Murtagh, would have come all this way. Who would have imagined that he would be able to complain about unfinished homework to his dragon, his partner of heart and mind…

Each day was a step further away from the shadows and tangles of his past.

For so long life had been an endless series of disagreements and frustrations. As he had grown and learned, he had come to see that no matter how many times he diverted, manipulated and tested the boundaries imposed there was no escape. It had been so tempting to simply accept his place and his name. But he had never able to relinquish the Murtagh that occasionally whispered about morals even as pressure mounted on each side. Galbatorix had tolerated these games, Murtagh knew, only because the King knew exactly how to reel his Forsworn's son back in.

He wondered if he would have ever broken the bonds if it wasn't for a dark haired girl with unreadable eyes. He could not help but wonder if he would have remained discontented and disillusioned and resentful forever, no matter how much distance he put between himself and Uru'baen, in the shadow of the King. If, despite Tornac's sacrifice and Eragon's acceptance, he would have ended up back in the capital again, serving the King simply because he could not leave the past behind.

Perhaps that had been Galbatorix's plan all along. To let him go and then reel him back in. The King, a master of manipulations, playing complex games of mistruths and misdirections with devastating effect, must have thought he would get the son of Morzan back again. One way or another, once he had emphasized the brutal lesson

I miss you Zoe, he thought as he sat down at the wide desk sung from the wood of the tree house. He wondered where she was and what she would say when he told her about his dreams. Unconsciously, as he unrolled the still unread scroll, he drew out the small black stone that Zoe had given him as a token and rolled it in his hand.

But he could not sit still, could not focus on the magical theory text that Oromis had assigned him. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, attempting to focus his mind. It was an old habit left over from the endless hours spent drilling with a sword, to empty his mind and focus on the world.

Oromis had told him not to practice magic until he made peace with himself and magic. A little over a week had passed since then and, while Oromis had kept him busy meditating, studying texts and deepening his understand of the Riders, Murtagh had not made any attempt to examine his feelings toward...toward what? What was magic? A force? An neat little ability he had picked up through his bond with Thorn?

He did know, however, that he had - and still did in many ways - blamed it for his mother's tragic marriage and his own miserable fate in Uru'baen. But Lucia had said that it wasn't just magic…it was intent and purpose and belief. It wasn't some mystical concept that existed on the edges of knowing but a force, or multiple forces that could be connected with in so many different ways.

All that seemed very far away…

Something flared and collapsed within him.

He reached into that part of him where the magic was and whispered a few words, felt the thrumming rush of power and, this time, did not withdraw and shun the connection. He allowed it to fill him, allowed himself to put form and shape to the magic with words. In front of him, appearing with a faint shimmer, a flickering weyr light appeared above the desk. He felt the draw on his energy, knew that he had to work hard if he was going to improve his endurance, but for a long time he could do nothing but stare at the clear white light.

Somehow, somewhere, he had slipped free.


	6. Sword Tip Up

_"__Take it," said Pethred. He was holding out the sword, the great blade sheathed in a simple black sheath. But it was no less dangerous, no less powerful - the ultimate sign of authority and power. It was a link to the old land, to the magic that bound Prydain together and which she, her brothers and sister were so deeply connected. It bestowed the right to rule, the complete and utter authority of High King that only a mad man would challenge. _

_There had been a few mad enough and now, thought Zoe grimly, they were dead._

_ "__I don't want it," continued her brother. "Take it!" His blue eyes were wide, his hands were shaking as they held out the massive sword. _

_She stared at him. Neither of them wanted it. Neither wanted the immense, enervating power that the blade conferred upon its bearer. Both had come, in their own time, to learn that power took as much as it gave. _

_And neither could ever step free of what they were born to be. It was a part of their spirits, of their souls, an enchanting melody that anchored and grounded them to this world as its protectors, as its guardians in time of chaos and darkness. Born and bred, she thought bitterly, to wear crowns they hated. _

_"__No," she said quietly, "I am not the eldest. You are High King. You, Pethred, not me. I cannot draw the sword. It will not answer to me." _

_"__I can't do it," he said. "Let's go. Give it to Eomund. Anyone. We can leave this place, go across the sea to some other land. Forget about all this." _

_"__You can't," she said quietly but her heart broke as she said it. "And neither can I. But I will always be there with you. No matter what - you will always have me." _

_"__Why should I do this?" His eyes were searching her face, trying to grasp at some sliver of freedom. _

_"__It's what our father would have wanted," she said and immediately regretted her words. _

_"__Father never…" _

_"__Father loved us," said Zoe, "but he also loved Prydain. Perhaps he loved Prydain more than he ever loved us but I do know this: he believed in you, Pethred. It was you he wanted as heir. It was you not me or Eomund or anyone else." _

_"__No one should have this much power," he said quietly, his blue eyes drawing her in completely. "Absolute power corrupts…how do I know when I've stepped over the line?"_

_"__You will know," said Zoe with complete conviction, "and you won't be alone. Lucia and Eomund…and everyone else will never leave you. We will do what must be done." She restrained herself from touching him, "Together, I promise."_

* * *

Pressed between her cousin and Marco, Zoe tried to pinpoint what had made her stop their small group from moving forward. Take a moment, she thought, and think. The magic was there, the ability to connect and _see _without really seeing at all. Her instincts told her to reach out.

But to what was she reaching out? What would she find if she completely let go and left behind the rules, the connections to body and mind?

She glanced at her companions but they were all frozen, trying to understand why she had suddenly stopped Marco. Wyrden and Eragon looked confused while Arya was scanning the walls with her intense green eyes. Angela looked disinterested and Solembum seemed to have disappeared. Only Taren was looking at her with any sort of understanding.

_What is it?_

_I don't know, _she said. _But I don't think this is way you came with Marco. _

_No? Perhaps we took the wrong turn back there then. _

She had to reach out. She had to give her instincts free rein and tumble willingly into these senses but the prospect unnerved her almost as much as continuing without first scouting ahead. Why did it? Old instincts, old memories warned her against.

She closed her eyes and compromised. Tentatively she reached out, all the while keeping a firm grip of herself. It was there. A shimmering, interlaced web of connections and power that hummed with dark intent. It was subtle, hidden but it was still _there_ if she looked carefully. A priest or some other magic user had layered a complex series of spells one on top of each other to form an interlacing web that would trigger…

"This is a trap," she said warningly. "We need to go back the way we came."

The others didn't question her. No one was in the mood to risk anything more than they already were. They edged backward, moving with care until they were once more in the chamber where the tunnel branched in three different directions.

"I am sure that was the way," said Marco. "Maybe the trap is only set if one approaches from this direction."

"The middle one," said Angela decisively, "it doesn't smell as foul. When in doubt follow your nose."

Zoe started, a memory, nothing more than an echo, making her pause briefly at the Herbalist's words. Where had she heard that line before? Somewhere…somewhere silly and inconsequential but she had heard it before or something like it.

They had not gone very far when they found themselves in a larger corridor studded with empty sconces and, at the end, a small room lined with three arches, each of which led to rooms with even more archways. They stopped when they arrived in a circular room with seven equally spaced archways placed along the walls. Seven corridors, including the one they had just traversed, stretched out into darkness before them. Arya, who seemed to be losing patience with the entire mess, attempted some magic but Zoe had the feeling, based on the way the elf kept moving from entrance to entrance, that the elf was finding very little.

"Now what?" asked Eragon darkly. The Rider was on edge, his body rigid and his movements sharp, tense. "We are getting turned around. We need to get out - now."

"I can't sense anything…or anyone," said Wyrden uneasily. The elf made a half pointed, half gesture with one hand at the dark lines of the runes that traced their way across the ceiling and down onto the walls. "Things are…muffled. Shadeslayer is right - we should leave as soon as possible."

"These runes," said Arya, "some of them are in the Ancient Language." The elf ran a hand down one of the walls, "But the meaning makes no sense."

Zoe stepped forward. Wyrden was right, as they had progressed through the tunnels her senses had become increasingly and oddly muffled although she was fairly certain they had not yet stumbled into the trap set by the priests.

But they could not be the only living things down here, she thought. Marco and Taren had seen men and she had read about an ambush. Had they reached the tunnels warded against magic users? She thought it had only been one room, specially prepared for Eragon by the Priests. There was something wrong and she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried to focus, figure out what it was.

This was too elaborate. Too complex.

Unless the King had planned this surprise for them? A more subtle trap than a dragon created out of the thoughts and experiences of _eldunari. _A more subtle but far more lethal and disturbing trap that would have long-term consequences for all involved. A trap designed to unbalance them all, to make them doubt skills they thought they had mastery over and, by doing so, singlehandedly render the entire company useless if it came to a fight?

She glanced at the runes, her eyes dancing over the lines and she tried to piece the puzzle together. Some of these runes seemed oddly reminiscent of the ones she had seen on Oromis's ancient scrolls but these were drawn with twisting and twirling lines. The hand that placed them on the walls looked like it must have been clumsy and haphazard. Lines overlapped in dizzyingly complex patterns, some of the black lines so ragged and uneven that they bleed into other lines. Stepping forward, eyes focused on the lines, she examined the black paint that had been used. Some, she noted, seemed to have been there for a long time, the black worn and faded in places but others looked far more recent and had a rushed, panicked look to them as if they had been scrawled in a great hurry.

Something danced on the edge of her awareness…until it wasn't. A sudden sense, a deep, bone-chilling warning. Instinct combined with _something_ else made her speak without thinking, made her move without being aware that she moving, grabbing the Rider's arm.

"Run," she said suddenly, not bothering to lower her voice or disguise the edge of terror. "Run - any of the tunnels on the right. NOW!"

* * *

Miles and miles away, in a cavernous throne room, a King paced restlessly. His mind was far away, focused intently on a web of power and intent layered by the Priests of Helgrind in the tunnels underneath the city.

Things weren't going quite as perfectly as he hoped but they were still on track. He didn't know why - this was a trap he had been laying for months. Feeding information to the Varden about the location of the tunnel through a well-placed manuscript, encouraging the Priests of Helgrind to activate the crystals and turn their anger towards the Rider for killing the Ra'zac. Manipulations within manipulations, no detail overlooked in a pattern that was dizzyingly complex.

Stilling his body, the King turned his focus and that of the _eldunari_ towards the tunnels of Dras'Leona and the trap that he would spring.

That night he would win the sapphire Rider. He would singlehandedly put this world on a new course.

He was a master of manipulations, of luring his enemies into what they thought was a position of power. Shadows within shadows, traps within traps. This night would mark the beginning of the end but the start of something new.

He had learned - long, long ago - how blinkered the world was. How set each of the races of this world was in their ways, the rules they thought governed this land. But he, Oathbreaker, was not. It had taken time, years of work and patient study, but he had found it…_seen_ it.

So close.

He was so close to controlling _all of it_.

* * *

They all jumped, no one daring to disagree with her. Sure enough, a moment later rapid footsteps and the sounds of metal clanking together could be heard distantly, the sounds echoing dimly against the stone walls.

They all ran.

Angela leading the way with Marco a few steps behind her. Zoe was barely aware of Taren steadying her arm as she stumbled on the stone, she felt strangely disconnected in a moment where she should have been completely focused on the physical world. There was something buzzing in her head, a strange sense…

Suddenly the tunnel opened and they all skidded into a room she had only read about and hoped desperately to avoid.

They were in a circular chamber with a circular pattern of inlaid stone on the floor. This, thought Zoe, was the place that Taren had spoken of. She could see the place where he had disrupted the runes and patterns of power tied to the purple crystals. It was subtle but the line had scored with his knife had made a clear line through the runes and broken the silver collar of one of the air had a pulsing, broken feel to it.

But she had little time to examine it further, everything was catching up and that sense…

Patterns within patterns, runes and magic. A sense of everything coming to a head, a convergence of forces that she was only distantly aware of. There was a pounding, a deep, twisting sense of something _there_ on the edge of her conscious mind. She was being pulled towards something as surely as if she was caught in a rip tide current pulling her out to sea. The water closing around her, the force beginning to pull her into something far larger and more dangerous.

They all turned as men in black and priests came pouring out of two of the entrances to the chamber. There was no more running, realized Zoe. This was the ambush - carried out differently than the one she recalled in hazy detail from the book. It was, however, still the same ambush from before and there was still enough power in this room, despite what Taren had done, to prevent the elves, Angela or Eragon from accessing their magic. She could see that from the shocked expressions on their faces, from the way all raised their weapons as they suddenly realized that they could not fall back on magic.

There was a new urgency to Eragon's grip on his sapphire sword.

But was she blocked? There wasn't time to check. For good or for ill, wise or not, her first reaction had and always would be: sword tip up.

The light of the torches glinted on her smooth, shimmering blade.

Their pursuers had caught up with them.

* * *

Eragon lifted his sword, bringing it down in a smooth arc to cleave one of the crystals in half. The chamber wan't large but there was enough room for their small group to spread out into a half semi-circle. The Rider had to be careful, however, that his sword did not sweep out in too far an arc. Arya and Wyrden were close enough.

I must stay away from the centre of the circle, thought the Rider. Away from the crystals, from the inlaid runes whose meaning danced on the edge of his understanding.

Everything was muffled.

He had realized this as they were running, when he tried to push his mind out to determine how many men were chasing them. He had felt nothing, only a soft, indistinct pressure on the edges of his mind. There had been no swell of answering power, no connection. He had not been able to use magic either although he had only realized that a split second ago. He was not able to feel Saphira.

Saphira. His heart clenched painfully. Every moment that he was blocked, every heart beat echoed with pain and fear.

He wanted so much to feel her, to sense her, the beat of their connection...without it, he felt empty, as if some vital part of himself were missing, some deeper connection unanswered.

He glanced at Arya who looked just as grim as he felt. The only comfort was that his sword had, so far, seemed impervious to whatever enchantments were blocking his own access to magic. A great deal suddenly depended on the hours he had spent crafting his swordsmanship.

Standing just to the left of the elf, her face a mask of total concentration, was Zoe. The tip of her blade was up but not in an offensive position and she made no effort to meet his gaze, to offer any sort of reassurance. Her eyes had a masked, distant look to them he had never seen before. He had never seen her look so distracted before a fight and it sent a faint trill of warning through him.

But there was no time to speak with her, to determine what it was that she was focused on.

The sound of men, of many heavy feet and weapons came from the tunnel before them. They spilled into the room and there was no time to do anything but react, his sword was a deadly tool in his hand, his movements smooth and precise. He could not waste a single one, could not allow himself to become separated from his companions.

As quickly as they had come, however, the men withdrew back. A loud clanging bell sounded and, to the Rider's surprise, out from the corridor, surrounded by young men in golden cloth came a bier carried by six oiled slaves upon which, propped upright, rested the armless and nearly headless figure: the High Priest of Helgrind.

The Priest gazed at them with eyes like chips of obsidian but his words, when he spoke, were directed at Eragon: "You have invaded our inner sanctums and you shall not the opportunity to do so again…Galbatorix would have us spare your lives. It was he who told us how to enchant these tunnels to trap you. But his dreams of you serving him are folly."

The Rider did not glance at his companions, he stood straight and tall amid the still bodies of the Laughing Dead. Blood was beginning to pool around the amethyst spikes, obscuring the thick black lines of the runes. He held his silence, he had nothing to say to this sick, twisted creature. Words, he had come to learn, were far too powerful to be thrown around lightly especially in a place like this where so much was twisted.

It seemed both Zoe and Taren had been wrong about the extent of the Priests magical trap. Then again, he thought, it was so like Galbatorix to plan this. He had maneuvered them all into this place, not even having to leave his capital.

His silence seemed to infuriate the High Priest who continued, his twisted mouth distorting the words. "We worship the Old Ones. It is to them that we sacrifice our flesh and blood. There is no torture horrible enough for your crime Rider. You killed our gods, you and that accursed dragon of yours. For that, you must die."

Eragon felt Arya shift uneasily behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Angela shift her stance, weapon raised in an offensive position. He could not see Zoe or Taren, but he could still sense them.

He held his silence, allowing the High Priest to continue speaking - trying to see some way out of the situation. He had the nasty feeling that the longer they stood there the more enemies surrounded them, encircling and entrapping them in these maze-like tunnels.

"Since you killed our gods," said the High Priest, "it is only fitting that you become their first kill. You are not deserving of the honour, any of you, but it will please the Old Ones, and in all things, we strive to satisfy their desires. As Tosk wrote, so shall it be."

The young men echoed the Priest's final words but the Laughing Dead remained eerily still. Their faces were concealed with thick black cloth, swords battered and nicked. Eragon felt a cold pit of dread form inside him, a dark twist of intuition of what might be coming making his adrenaline rise.

"The Ra'zac are dead," said Eragon evenly, breaking his silence. Playing for time, resisting the urge to take a step back as he did so. His face set in a stony mask.

The Priest seemed to smile if it could be called that at all. He jerked his chin, the movement seeming to signal something to his followers who began to beat their bells once more.

Out from one of the tunnels came a slow drumming sound and then the shapes of more men and behind them…

Eragon's gut clenched, a cold feeling making him grip his sword so tightly the wrapped hilt cut into his hands. If the night had been going badly before it was now a complete and utter disaster. He stilled, body and mind freezing and analyzing - a reaction long since drummed into his nervous system.

Somehow, somewhere, the Priests of Helgrind had found a clutch of Ra'zac eggs and had hatched them. The Ra'zac that emerged from the tunnel were still juveniles, clothed and hooded in robes that were far too big, but there was a hunter's grace to their movements. Eragon had no doubt they were as dangerous as their parents had been. They were already dangerously outnumbered as it was and, without magic, the Rider was struggling to see a way out of the mess.

He dared not glance at his companions. He dared not show even the slightest hint of doubt in front of these priests.

So this, he realized calmly in a flash of self-reflection, is how it feels to fight without magic. To be completely cut off mind to mind and dependent on those around you to coordinate themselves with you. This is how Roran feels. No swell of power, no answering call - just his own skills, his own unenhanced abilities.

He sensed Arya move closer, saw her sword glinting out of the corner of his eye. The elf was poised to attack.

"Rejoice," said the High Priest, "for today you will all receive the blessing of the Old Ones, and by your sacrifice, the record of your sins shall be washed clean and you shall enter the afterlife pure."

The hooded juvenile Ra'zac moved forward, twisted hands reaching up to push back the heavy cowl of the cloak that covered their forms.

I killed your kind once before, thought the Rider. I have killed worse things than you.

Trained endlessly in close-quarters by Zoe during those long nights in Du Weldenvarden when his mind had been slightly hazed by the pain of Durza's scar, Eragon knew exactly what to do. He didn't need magic to be deadly, a distant part of him realized. He didn't need magic to fight and to win.

And he wasn't alone.

* * *

Everything was muffled, disconnected.

Or was it?

The world seemed to open up before her. It had happened in the space of a heartbeat. She was seeing the room through a new lens, if you could even call it seeing. She could _see_ the interlacing connections and spells that had been woven in this place in an effort to block magicians from accessing their power.

Someone or something was blocking her friends attempts to access it. It was more than just the runes and the Priests traps layered with those of the King. There was a force, a heavy, smothering presence on the edge of her mind. The King, she realized distantly.

Another heart beat.

Even as she raised her sword again, prepared to fight men and the juvenile Ra'zac just long enough to run again, she felt something more. It was calling her, faint and then with increasing strength.

Let go, whispered a voice. It sounded like her mother's. Warm but crisp, gentle but commanding: let go.

Something was about to happen, events tumbling forward and pulling her with them like a wave rising out of deep water about to crest...

For a moment, a moment that stretched on and on, she saw it. She was part of it.

It was a melody that pulled at her soul. It wanted to connect with her. Not magic, she thought, this was more than that simple word. Forces, a whole, infinite world of something _more _twisted through with a sense of _home_ however distant.

Windswept plains…

A northern sea where icy waves crashed against frozen shores…

A wind that echoed with traces of forgotten voices in languages she had learned as a child…

_Home_. _Prydain._

She was pulled forward, unable to resist and unwilling to fight it. An overload of information making her falter, as a mass of long-dulled senses flared into being, her hands tightening around her sword hilt. She was between, standing between voids, a crack between this world and whatever lay beyond.

With a crash of sudden realization, Zoe suddenly knew her control was an illusion. She could hide her appearance with an illusion, could weave simple wards and light lamps but that was small, almost insignificant next to this. She could never dream of controlling this. She was a part of this and it was a part of her.

Magic.

Magic, if you could call it that at all, did not discriminate, did not offer advice. It was simply there. And for so long she hadn't even known it was there. All of this had been kept locked down, her mind unaware of this vast, deeply interconnected web of forces and power. She had grasped only a tiny portion of it, thought it was just like Eragon's or the elves magic - bound by language and rules that she could dutifully remember and apply.

How wrong she was.

She had used it, unthinkingly, when she had screamed in rage and pain at a white marble wall in Tronjheim, knowing that Eragon could very well die at Druza's hands. It had been instinct then, fear and pain taking her past conscious choice and allowing her to reconnect, for a brief second. And she hadn't realized it then. Perhaps that was intent of the powers that had sent her here, trying to numb her awareness - to keep her safely blocked from _this_ until she was closer to the end...

But it hadn't been enough - she had come into contact with it again. She had touched it when she went through the archway in Du Weldenvarden. And, again, she had remained ignorant of the true scope of what it meant. Her mind had been unable or perhaps unwilling to see just how different her connection to magic was. Unable to see that it wasn't really magic at all. Threads of power, connected and intertwined in an ever-shifting pattern that stretched across worlds. Pulling her back to the homeland she hadn't even known existed until a few short months ago, pulling her into the void between forces...between...

This…

A measured echo that filled every space and corner. The second realization was sudden and sharp, almost painful in its terrifying intensity.

This was what Galbatorix wanted to control. It wasn't about controlling multiple worlds. Why control worlds when you could control this? Worlds had to be subdued, managed and controlled. Worlds that would fight and might just overpower Galbatorix's forces. Such campaigns required resources, planning, execution, long-term commitment, and alliance building - all of which were things Galbatorix had shown no inclination to do in his own Empire. Why bother? Because this…this was the _ultimate…_

Time slowed to a lagged crawl as the power rushed in about her, a deluge of perceptions, a surge of raw energy that turned awareness inside-out, opening about her with flawless clarity, every instinct expanding and exploding in a blaze of razor-sharp awareness, almost crippling in its intensity, a fraction which stretched for eons, pain and lucidity tearing through her -

In front of her, infinitely slow within the stretched awareness of the power, the juvenile Ra'zac screamed its challenge and the priests were rushing forward with weapons raised -

Instinct took over, firing old pathways as she gave instinct free rein. A blinding movement from thought to action, ripping through her, overwhelming the wards and the magicians tasked with defeating their small group. Overwhelming these petty attempts to block her access to the magic because there was magic everywhere, it called and pulled and sang at her. They could block Eragon and the elves - even Angela - but she was different. She had become _it_, become the conduit for it, merely the vessel through which it rushed like a torrent - a river in full spring flood. Igniting the fuse -

Absolute power, blood singing through her ears, a pure note of a melody that wrapped itself around her -

All of this just waiting to be given expression -

A single spell, not spoken but _felt _because who needed words when all one had to do was _feel -_

An arm extending, the crackling force leaping from her hand -

In that moment, as she passed into this vast web of power like diving into deep water, smoothly and naturally, no struggling, she _saw_. She sensed and flinched as the images rushed in at her like that fall into deep water, enveloping her completely as if she had never been severed from this awareness. Knowledge hitting her with the force of battering ram, fiercely intense, details and impressions and perceptions…

Two dragons of shifting colours struggling to stay aloft in a storm of pitch black fury…

A vast sweep of possibilities tangled about and among them...

And the knowledge that this could not be governed without there being terrible consequences. These forces weren't meant to touch. Already they were breaking, snapping apart, unable to withstand the enormous force exerted on them as they were forced together by the intent of one man...

She could _feel_ the vastness of unlimited space, of worlds upon worlds in their own galaxies slowly turning in infinity, a background grind like bone on bone…

She jolted back to the physical world with a dry scream, every muscle tensing, every nerve raw, so that when her eyes opened she found herself standing amid a bloody mess of destruction she wasn't quite aware of what she had just done. The juvenile Ra'zac were lying with their necks oddly twisted. They seemed to have been blasted back by the force of the power she had unleashed. The Priests, along with their armed soldiers, lay in crumpled, smoldering heaps. The Head Priest was little more than a smoldering bundle of cloth.

Somehow she had ended up in the centre of the circle, pushed back by the power she had unleashed perhaps. The crystals had been shattered into thousands of pieces, the circle had been destroyed. The inlays so cracked and blackened they looked like charred wood. Ash was drifting through the air.

Fire and ash. Shattered crystal.

She met Taren's eyes first. A small breath of relief escaping her when she saw that she hadn't inadvertently harmed any of her companions. It had been so instinctual, old pathways firing without hesitation that she hadn't been certain that she had maintained control enough to direct it around her friends.

They were staring at her, completely silent. Arya and Wyrden looked pale. Eragon looked like he might be sick. Even Marco, though he was not attuned to magic, had sensed something and looked positively green.

"That," said Angela in a faint voice, "was a bit dramatic. You never do things by halves do you?"

Zoe barely heard her. Each nerve was raw, stomach heaving, she was sure that she was about to be sick. It had happened so fast. The images and the sensations jumbled up. She wasn't in control of herself but she was aware enough to say unthinkingly: "What did I see?"

She had spoken in the formal, highly stylized language of Prydain's court. The words were rushed, almost incoherent in her attempt to get it all out at once. She was aware enough to realize that she was shaking badly, that Taren had come up behind her and was holding her arm tightly.

"I don't know," said Angela. But she clearly knew something. That, realized Zoe, was fear - a deep terror.

Zoe stumbled slightly as she wavered on her feet. Taren's arm tightened around her, keeping her upright. "I saw…"

The witch gripped her other arm, her face deadly serious,"Do not speak of what you saw - not here and not now. Do you understand?"

She could only stare at the Herbalist, every possible detail of the images intact in the fore of her mind, cut with crystal clarity so sharp that it seemed to slice her thoughts.

She could only nod her head, an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion making her stumble as Taren guided her forward and away from that place.

_Are you alright? _

_No_, she said honestly.

_I trust you. _

_Trust isn't enough_, said Zoe. She hadn't realized…never realized…and now she could sense it, suddenly felt as if a wall had been knocked down inside of her and now all that awareness stretched out into infinity was calling her.

Prydain.

_Prydain. _

She could feel it - feel it calling her back to the forces that were intertwined with her very soul. Could feel them rushing around her, pulling and calling…

_It has always been enough_, said Taren firmly, drawing her back. _You forget that I have known you for your entire life, cousin. _

She took comfort in those words. But it did little to soften the sudden realization, to suddenly be able to reach out to this infinitely vast network of connections and forces that were wrapped up in this thing called 'magic.' And now she understood why she had taken up the sword, why she had spent hours upon hours fixated on a single, complex series of blows in the training rooms at Caer Dathyl. Why she had submerged herself so completely in the repetitive movements that she would drown out this sense of power, this far-reaching sense that called and pulled at her.

Taking up a sword had been as much about proving her worth as an act of simple desperation.

_You saved us_, reminded Taren gently before withdrawing.

"Zoe?" Arya's voice was little more than a whisper, the elf's green eyes full of concern and a trace of fear. Eragon, standing slightly behind the elf, looked pale and deeply unsettled.

But she didn't know how to talk to the elf, didn't know how to explain so she shook her head.

"She will be fine," said Taren in that level, calm voice that had commanded armies. He had taken control, his naturally calm demeanor giving his movements and words an authority that brooked no opposition. "Marco," he said, "if you will guide us? We don't have much time."

They moved forward with Marco leading the way and Taren supporting Zoe. She was grateful for his steady presence, for the way he guided her although she knew he was still upset with her. For now, however, it was left behind in the face of their precarious situation.

She wasn't aware of how they got out of the Cathedral. Wasn't aware of the myriad of passageways they moved through. At some point Taren picked her up, his strong arms lifting her weightlessly as they hurried through the tunnels and into a complicated network of rooms and corridors of which she could distinguish very little. She found herself pressing her face into her cousin's dirty over tunic, trying to block out what she had seen and felt.

Unconsciousness slipped over like a blessed wave, the complete, unknowing darkness a relief.

* * *

The King stumbled slightly as if physically struck

Something had happened…_something. _

He had been so close, so close to that web of vast interconnected power. Almost a part of it, governing and controlling it through the combined focus of the captured, twisted _eldunari_. On the cusp of truly understanding the name, the true name of magic. The wild, intoxicating power just a heart beat away.

He had been able to manipulate the wards and runes of those petty Priests leagues away in Dras'Leona. Had been able to block the elves and the young Rider's access to their magic, able to manipulate and control their every move even from his throne room in Uru'baen. It had been a thrilling sensation.

No spell caster since the very beginning of this world had been able to do what he had just done. He had sensed the larger pattern, felt it and manipulated it in just the right way. He had felt like a god. A god controlling the fate of uncounted worlds bound together by these forces, manipulating the very foundations of his own world.

Until he suddenly wasn't able to.

Until, with the sudden violence of a summer storm, he had been blasted backward both physically and mentally. The forces snapping away, rejecting him as suddenly and violently as a sudden gust of hurricane force wind, slamming him into the marble throne where he remained, crumpled in a disbelieving heap of black robes.

Why? He had sensed no presence, no opposing force. It was as if the power had simply voluntarily broken away, leaving him shattered and broken. But that could not be?

_Someone, _said Shruikan, _was behind it. I felt another, very briefly. _

_There is no one in this world, _said the King bitingly, _who has the ability to connect and control these forces. The elves are blinded, blinkered by their petty rules and spells. The Riders feared this and shunned it. _

_There was someone, _insisted the dragon in a rare show of open disagreement. _I am a dragon. I am a part of this…my kind has always been a part of these forces. I know what I felt. _

The King felt fractured, his own connection brittle and broken. The forces were out of reach, his own power severely diminished at the most inconveient time. It would take time to repair what had been damaged. Time that he would use wisely.

_Find them_, he hissed at the eldunari.

* * *

_"What I'm asking is, is it right to allow my brother to die simply because it furthers my own cause, it wouldn't even do that; it would simply have been convenient." _

_"You brother is…" _

_"He is a prince," she countered, "and my little brother." _

_"Sacrifices are…" _

_"Which ones? And when do they become too many…when do the ends fail to justify the means? How do you know when you have gone too far?" _

_"You know what duty asks of you." _

_"Would you have me prepared to pay any price, give any life to achieve my personal goals and simply dismiss those around me as irrelevant before my personal agenda? To judge myself above even my own brother?" _

_"Yes." Then the most devastating blow of all was delivered: "Because you already have."_

The world spun around her, dizzyingly abstract as she regained consciousness.

"Stay here," said Taren, helping her sink against the stone wall. His voice still the same even, commanding tone and she was too exhausted to refuse him. The bench was tucked into the curve of a wall, safely shielding them from sight of the street and the worst of the rain that was pouring down. They seemed to be some distance from the Cathedral although she could not say how far.

"Angela?" said her cousin.

"I'll stay with her." The Herbalist moved forward, Solembum had vanished somewhere. She could have sworn she saw the flicker of a werecat's tail vanish into the shadows beyond their hiding place.

"Be careful," said Zoe. But her cousin was already moving away, vanishing after the elves and Eragon. Somewhere, far above, Zoe could hear the whoosh and the thud of Saphira's wing beats.

The battle for the city was about to begin.

But that was a battle she had no desire to involve herself in. She had fought her own that night, only now becoming aware of the price.

The Herbalist seemed unsure how to act around her but Zoe ignored it. She leaned back against the stone, physical exhaustion colouring her thoughts and movements. The world was fading and then coming back into focus around her, her mind seizing on minute details.

"I saw two dragons," she murmured.

The Herbalist looked uncomfortable, "Anything else?"

"I felt…it felt wrong," she said after a moment's pause. "I…" but she couldn't describe it. Somehow she had the feeling that her inability to speak spoke volumes to the Herbalist who looked distinctly green.

"Whatever you saw you were meant to see."

"I saw Eragon and Murtagh," said Zoe quietly, "didn't I? The shifting colours of the dragons…is that about _eldunari?_"

The Herbalist hissed, "Careful, young one. Do not speak…not of them. It is best not to read into these things. It only brings uncertainty…and despair."

She shook her head, ignoring the warning. "What aren't you telling me? You've seen the same thing - didn't you?"

The Herbalist's expression took on a wary look, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I have seen many things," she said. "But you shouldn't go where you're not supposed to and you shouldn't ask questions about things better left alone."

Zoe found that she had nothing to say in reply to that. So she said something else, "I spoke in my own language. You understood."

Angela smiled slightly, "Oh that…I wasn't sure if you caught that but of course you did. I suppose it is something I picked up….a very long time ago."

"Have you been to Prydain?"

The Herbalist shifted slightly, the smile fading, "Not in person. But I met someone from Prydain once. A traveler who died on a distant shore. He was a beautiful singer."

Zoe took a breath and tried to think instead of speak. Better to approach Anegla from multiple angles, to identify points of interest and circle back to them rather than blurt out questions right left and centre.

Running a hand along the rough stone of the wall, Zoe asked, "How, Angela, did this happen? Why now? Why Galbatorix?"

The Herbalist's eyes sharpened, "What do you think, my lady?"

A small burst of adrenalin made her sit slighter straighter. She knew she could not react too fast, knew that she could not afford to make a mistake or to appear like she was purposefully angling for answers the Herbalist clearly did not want to give.

"It seems strange," she said quietly, "that this is now such a desperate struggle - does it not? All these millennia…this cannot be the first time someone has tried to gain control of..of _it_. I very much doubt one Rider from this world, for all his power and cunning, is the worst."

A giant crashing sound came from the direction of the Cathedral. Zoe heard the sounds of stone cracking and wood splintering. She saw fire plume into the sky and heard Saphira's roars. But it was all very distant. The sounds of a battle being fought in a city - the sounds of buildings being torn down and the screams of terrified citizens - the fire and the ash were all things she had seen before.

She had seen the city of her birth burn after all in that awful civil war. Had stood by as the fire raged through the streets, had walked through the ashes to what remained of the throne room. She could still feel the heat, taste the ash on her tongue.

"No," said the Herbalist, "it is not and he is not the worst. Wars come and go, balances are disrupted and must be restored or all falls to chaos and darkness." The Herbalist looked down at her hands, suddenly looking far older and wearier than Zoe had ever seen her. "Others have come before you, my lady. Others have crossed the gateways, found the links and tried to restore balance. Galbatorix is simply the greatest threat right now although I am sure another will come along.…mayhap there is another war being fought right this minute. There is always something…someone who can't leave things be."

"What happened to them? To the ones who came before me."

The Herbalist levelled her with a very serious look, "They went their various ways, did what they needed to do. Some did it with more grace than others. But one way or another…they tried, some failed and some succeeded. Sometimes it was enough and sometimes it wasn't. It is hard to say."

That was a telling statement, thought Zoe. Leaning back against the stone she asked the loaded question, "Did they stay in the places they went?"

Angela's eyes softened, her face taking on a new, almost gentle look. "You know the answer," she said, "you knew it the second you connected with the magic today. You must accept the truth. You are part of the weaving of Prydain, a part of the forces of another world. You are a daughter of Llyr and Angard - that isn't something you can change. When you did not know the full truth it was easier for you to exist in this world. Knowing is power…knowing is remembering and that…that draws attention. These forces remember you…Prydain remembers you and you remember it."

It was still raining, realized Zoe numbly as she turned her gaze to the street but the rain did little to stop the dragon fire leaping up from the torn remains of the Cathedral. The sounds of fighting were muffled, the clattering and the bangs and the yells sounding more like the normal sounds of a summer storm than they had any right to.

"Why do you think," said the Herbalist softly but unrelenting, "your mental walls are so unbreakable? Why you so easily fade into the background when spell casters search for your presence? You should have been discovered by the King long ago but you have not. Your skills are different, they push against the rules that govern this world."

She said nothing. She had nothing to say, the puzzle pieces settling into a more coherent image.

The implications of everything that had happened that night made her stomach constrict. She had always known, sensed it even if she had not known exactly _why_…but some part of her had hoped, despite that lingering sense of not belonging - of being an alien creature in a world not her own. Some part had hoped that the connection to Prydain had been broken somehow even if she hadn't known the connection ran deeper than royal duty and familial love - powerful as both those things were.

A massive crash came from somewhere close to the wall that curved around their small bench but Zoe didn't even glance that way. The rain kept pouring down, the drops splattering on the stone streets. Sheltered by an overhang from the worst of it, Zoe gazed numbly at the water.

"How could I think…" but the words caught in her throat, she was unable to articulate the storm of emotions that swept through her. They went as quickly as they came, however, replaced by emptiness.

You knew this, came a voice in her mind. You gave him that dragon egg and you hoped that this dragon would be there for him because you knew you couldn't be forever. You did, said the voice, do not deny it.

She had to start believing it didn't matter, had to convince herself that she was indifferent.

"You didn't know," said Angela but the words were cold comfort, "and if you had known would you have fought so hard? Would you have made such a valiant effort to turn Murtagh's path from the one set out by destiny and the King? You cannot dismiss the many good things you have done for this world because you chose to care. "

Saphira was roaring her anger for the whole city to hear. The sounds of a dragon's rage echoing her own inner turmoil.

"I would like to think that, even if I had known, I would have done it anyway," said Zoe. "That I didn't always need a personal element to drive my actions. That I could…"

Could what? She didn't know anymore.

"You learned your lessons well," said Angela quietly, considering her with an unreadable expression. "Perhaps you learned them too perfectly."

"If I had learned my lessons," said Zoe with a thinly disguised layer of self-loathing, "I would not be sitting here. I would not have made so many mistakes."

Angela was silent for a long time. "Come," she said, "we are too exposed here. Neither of us should linger in the city tonight."

"One last thing," said Zoe quietly, "please Angela."

The witch let out a long low sigh, "I never thought I would hear _you _use the word _please_."

Zoe shook her head, "Stories…they keep coming up. Why was I sent to this world with books not from my own world?"

"I have often wondered that," said Angela. "I do know that stories are links. They are the threads that link these disparate worlds and dimensions together…across endless space and time. The stories of those whose journeys came before your own. Their memories and hopes and dreams…perhaps those books were intended to remind you. An anchor of sorts."

Zoe forced herself to rise from the stone bench, muscles protesting at the movement. Angela gripped her upper arm, the weight of her hand lending Zoe support as she steadied herself.

That first kiss.

A kiss tinged with a dark twist of destruction.

It lingered in her memory, an ember that glowed. Standing in a cold corridor in the dwarves magnificent city after a deeply depressing funeral for a man she had willingly allowed to die by an Urgal's sword. Choosing one life over another, moving forward the potentially powerful player that was Nasuada at the cost of a known, tested quantity in Ajihad. Nothing she hadn't done before but she hadn't known that then.

She had turned and seen him, seen him standing in that corridor offering her security and warmth. He hadn't judged her, hadn't made any effort to conceal the fractured nature of his soul, the deeply held anger and pain. She had not hidden anything from him either, had shown him the best and worst of herself. Had acknowledged truths about herself and her actions that she never had before.

But she'd known…even then, she had known how doomed it was. How destructive it might be for both of them. Was it pure selfishness on her part to intertwine their lives? Or was it simply human? The need to connect, to share and to find something worth clinging to, fighting for among all this madness…

She could almost hear her younger brother's gentle voice asking her: Why him, Zoe? Could you not have loved someone else?

Fire and water and ash. The city was burning around her. Dragon fire blazing into the dark, rain cloud sky as ashes began to fall along with the rain drops. A fitting juxtaposition, she thought distantly.

"You need to make a decision," said Angela who had risen to her feet beside the young woman. "About what you will do…what you will be. Your true worth," said the Herbalist, "has always been in your actions, in your honesty."

"I thought I had decided that," she said quietly. "I stood before the elven Queen and told her who I thought I was. I stood before Eragon and said I knew what I was and that I would not betray his trust again. I've shouted my name for all this world to hear. I've lived in this world and fought for it for over a year."

She turned away so that she was looking out at the street. She could hear the sounds of swords and men drawing closer. They needed to move soon and quickly.

"That was then. But now," said Angela, "what are you _now? _Where do you _stand_ now?"

She waited a beat, and then two.

"Where I used to stand," she said calmly. A wash of quiet realization and calm sweeping over her, quieting the painful beat of her heart.

"I forgot the most important lesson of all," she said looking straight at Angela without flinching. Each shield dropping back into place, each word spoken with precise clarity. The steel-masked by outward calm as Zoe of Angard and Llyr took the final, reluctant step and reclaimed the very thing that her past had honed within her. Reclaimed the tenacity and the willpower and the edge to survive and _win_.

The Herbalist looked, for a moment, deeply uncertain, almost afraid. "What is that?"

"Never lose perspective," she said quietly, her words almost lost in the cracking and the crashing. "I made it personal. I made it personal and I lost perspective."

The Herbalist moved forward, the two of them leaving the sheltered alcove. People were running, the fire and the fighting resulting in a chaotic mess of panicking civilians. And around her she could feel it, the thrum of power, of those intertwining forces and links. It was there, pulling at her, a constant tug at her mind and heart. It was both new and strange but old and familiar all at once.

Not now, she told herself as she unsheathed her sword. Not now, she said again as she gathered what remained of her strength and stepped out into the rain and the churning crowd of terrified civilians trying to escape the dragon fire and Varden soldiers.

Sword tip up.


End file.
